He looked very manly as he said it, his strong figure leaning square shoulders toward her. A swift vision chased through her brain of her precious boy henceforth busy in the bank by day, and in society by night; of Mrs. Bruce’s increasing querulousness and exactions, stretching out into an indefinite future.
The captain’s fireside, and herself mistress of his hearth and home, suddenly showed with an attraction she had never felt before; as if it were a haven of shelter from that monotonous other future, with its stern sense of duty, and its occasional high-lights.
“I believe you cal’late to tire me out, Hiram.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” he returned, leaning back again and biting his blade of grass.
“Why don’t you ask me about Rosalie?” said Betsy. “What do you know?”
“Why, Irving told me that you found her out there, and wheedled some old gent into payin’ her way back East again, and that she was in Boston now, and that you’re keepin’ an eye on her.”
“Old gentleman!” repeated Betsy indignantly. “If you call yourself one, then he is. He’s just about your age.”
“I’m just the right age to be a bridegroom,” responded Captain Salter promptly.
“I hope Mr. Irving didn’t say anything about this before Mr. Nixon. It’s a secret.”