“I did not know that he spoke of his father,” said Miss Dinah, thoughtfully.
“Oh, he spoke much of him. He told me, amongst other things, how he had been a dear friend of papa's; that as young men they lived together like brothers, and never were separate till the fortune of life divided them.”
“What is all this I am listening to? Of whom are you telling me, Josephine?”
“Of Fred, Aunt Dinah; of Fred, of course.”
“Do you mean young Conyers, child?”
“Yes. How could I mean any other?”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said the old lady, drumming with her heel on the floor and her fingers on the table. “It has all turned out as I said it would! Peter, Peter, will you never be taught wisdom? Listen to me, child!” said she, turning almost sternly towards Josephine. “We have been at cross-purposes with each other all this time. This letter which I have just read for you—” She stopped suddenly as she reached thus far, and after a second's pause, said, “Wait for me here; I will be back presently. I have a word to say to your grandfather.”
Leaving poor Josephine in a state of trepidation and bewilderment,—ashamed at the confession she had just made, and trembling with a vague sense of some danger that impended over her,—Miss Dinah hurried away to the garden.
“Here's a new sort of worm got into the celery, Dinah,” said he, as she came up, “and a most destructive fellow he is. He looks like a mere ruffling of the leaf, and you 'd never suspect him.”
“It is your peculiarity never to suspect anything, brother Peter, even after you have had warning of peril. Do you remember my telling you, when we were up the Rhine, what would come of that intimacy between Conyers and Josephine?”