“I hope you will stay for a week, at least, for I scarcely expect my brother before Saturday. Meanwhile, if you have any fancy to visit Cobham, and make your acquaintance with the family there, remember you have all the privileges of an inn here, to come and go, and stay at your pleasure.”
“I do not want to leave this. I wish I was never to leave it,” muttered he below his breath.
“Perhaps I guess what it is that attaches you to this place,” said she, gently. “Shall I say it? There is something quiet, something domestic here, that recalls 'Home.'”
“But I never knew a home,” said Conyers, falteringly. “My mother died when I was a mere infant, and I knew none of that watchful love that first gives the sense of home. You may be right, however, in supposing that I cling to this spot as what should seem to me like a home, for I own to you I feel very happy here.”
“Stay then, and be happy,” said she, holding out her hand, which he clasped warmly, and then pressed to his lips.
“Tell your friend to come over and dine with you any day that he can tear himself from gay company and a great house, and I will do my best to entertain him suitably.”
“No. I don't care to do that; he is a mere acquaintance; there is no friendship between us, and, as he is several years older than me, and far wiser, and more man of the world, I am more chilled than cheered by his company. But you shall read his letter, and I 'm certain you 'll make a better guess at his nature than if I were to give you my own version of him at any length.” So saying, he handed Stapyl-ton's note across the table; and Miss Dinah, having deliberately put on her spectacles, began to read it.
“It's a fine manly hand,—very bold and very legible, and says something for the writer's frankness. Eh? 'a miserable wayside inn!' This is less than just to the poor 'Fisherman's Home.' Positively, you must make him come to dinner, if it be only for the sake of our character. This man is not amiable, sir,” said she, as she read on, “though I could swear he is pleasant company, and sometimes witty. But there is little of genial in his pleasantry, and less of good nature in his wit.”
“Go on,” cried Conyers; “I 'm quite with you.”
“Is he a person of family?” asked she, as she read on some few lines further.