“You’re an insensible Philistine, Mort Elwell,” she said, with a sly glance at her sister. “That’s what Stella’d call you, and she knows.”
The point of the taunt was lost on the young man, but he had an impression, derived from early lessons in the Sabbath School, that the Philistines were a race of heathen idolaters, and he resented the charge with spirit.
“You’d better call your cousin the Philistine,” he retorted; “I’m sure I have no liking for graven images.”
This was too much for Esther. She snatched the picture from his hand and bent a look of admiration upon the shapely white head, with its classic profile and downcast eyes, which made ample amends for the cold scrutiny to which it had just been subjected.
“It is perfectly beautiful,” she said, with slow emphasis; “I don’t see how you can be unappreciative.”
Morton did not press his obnoxious opinion. He grew rather silent, and except for an occasional sally from Kate, conversation was at a low ebb for the rest of the way.
Meanwhile the sunset flamed and faded in the west. The evening breeze sprang up, and cool, restful shadows fell on the wide, rich landscape.
“Home at last!” cried Kate, as a bend in the road brought them suddenly upon a house of the colonial style, shaded by fine old trees, at the edge of town. “And there’s mother in the doorway looking for us.”
[CHAPTER II—TALKING IT OVER]
Mrs. Northmore was at the gate to greet her daughters when the great wagon stopped.