“How well you are looking, Lizzy!” said he, with a thick utterance.
“And you too, dear papa,” said she, caressingly. “This quiet rural life seems to have agreed wonderfully with you. I declare you look five years younger for it, does he not, Mr. Beecher?”
“Ah, Beecher, how are you?” cried Davis, warmly shaking the other's hand. “This is jolly, to be all together again,” said he, as, drawing his daughter's arm within his own, and taking Beecher on the other side, he told the postilions to move forward, while they would find their way on foot.
“How did you ever hit upon this spot?” asked Beecher; “we could n't find it on the map.”
“I came through here some four-and-twenty years ago, and I never forget a place nor a countenance. I thought at the time it might suit me, some one day or other, to remember, and you see I was right. You are grown fatter, Lizzy; at least I fancy so. But come, tell me about your life at Aix,—was it pleasant? was the place gay?”
“It was charming, papa!” cried she, in ecstasy; “had you only been with us, I could not have come away. Such delightful rides and drives, beautiful environs, and then the Cursaal of an evening, with all its odd people,—not that my guardian, here, fancied so much my laughing at them.”
“Well, you did n't place much restraint upon yourself, I must say.”
“I was reserved even to prudery; I was the caricature of Anglo-Saxon propriety,” said she, with affected austerity.
“And what did they think of you, eh?” asked Davis trying to subdue the pride that would, in spite of him, twinkle in his eye.
“I was the belle of the season. I assure you it is perfectly true!”