As Stella—knowing nothing of the history of the forged bill—said, he had his thinking fits, when he used to sit with his head in his hands, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
But these fits were not of frequent occurrence, and oftener he was in the best of boyish moods, chatty and cheerful, and "chaffy." His devotion to Stella, indeed, was extraordinary. It was more than the love of a brother, it was not the love of a sweetheart, it was a kind of worship. He would sit for hours by her side, more often at her feet listening to her singing, or watching her at work. He was never so happy as when he was with her, walking in the meadows, and he would gladly lay aside his fishing rod or his book, to hang about with her in the garden.
There had never been anyone so beautiful as Stella—there had never been anyone so good. The boy looked up to her with the same admiration and love with which the devotee might regard his patron saint.
His attachment was so marked that even his father, who noticed so little, observed it and commented on it.
"Frank follows you like a dog, Stella," he said, the third evening after the boy's arrival. "Don't let him bother you; he has his reading to get through, and there's the river and his rod. Send him about his business if he worries you."
Stella laughed.
"Frank worry me!" she exclaimed lightly. "He is incapable of such a thing. There never was such a dear considerate boy. Why, I should miss him dreadfully if he were to go away for an hour or two even. No, he doesn't bother me in the slightest, and as to his books and his rod, he shamelessly confessed yesterday, that he didn't care for any of them half as much as he cared for me."
The old man looked up and sighed.
"It is strange," he said, "you seem to be the only person who ever had any influence over him."
"I ought to be very proud, then," said Stella, "and I am. No one could help loving him, he is so irresistible."