“Then I’ll be there, Master Julius, to the third seat from the front; but it ain’t becoming for a woman of my age, seventy-nine come Christmas, to sit under a slip of a lad as hasn’t got the taste of the birch off his back.”
“That’s too bad, Betty,” broke in Rosamond, speaking out of conviction. “Mr. Bowater isn’t so young as he looks, and he was too good a boy ever to need the birch.”
“All the wuss for he,” retorted the undaunted Betty. “Spare the rod, and spile the child.”
The village wit was left triumphant, and Julius proposed to return by a cross-road leading into the plantations. Suddenly a scud of rain mixed with whirling yellow leaves sent them hurrying into a cart-shed, where, with a sudden start, they found themselves rushing in on some one. Who was it? A girl—a young lady. That was evident, as Rosamond panted out, “I beg your pardon!” and the next moment there was the exclamation, “Mr. Julius Charnock! You don’t remember me? Eleonora Vivian!”
“Miss Vivian! you have the advantage of me,” said Julius, a little stiffly. “Let me introduce my wife.”
The hands met, and Rosamond perceived in the failing light a very fine-looking maiden, with a superbly carried head and neck, simply dressed in gray cloth. “Are you sheltering here, or are you sketching?” she asked, seeing some paper and drawing materials.
“I was giving a lesson. See,” exhibiting some bold outlines on large paper. “Does not my pupil do me credit?”
“Very spirited,” said Rosamond. “Where is she?”
“He is gone to fetch me his grandmother’s umbrella. He is the little Gurth of these parts.”
“Of whom you are making a Giotto?” asked Julius, thawing a little.