“Any time’s a good time, Mr. Nixon,” went on the hostess. “The latch-string will be always out.”
“Say, this is pretty nice, do you know it?” exclaimed Robert, looking about. “Such a corking view!”
Seeing Betsy in her usual trim garb, and with no line of care in her forehead, the young man asked himself if she could bear any relation to that tragical Sunday morning.
“You look as if you’d always been here,” he said.
“I really feel that way,” replied Betsy. “Sit down, Mr. Nixon.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t. I have to take this young lady and bear her off to my light canoe. Brute’s gone to Boston and it’s my innings.”
Betsy saw Rosalie’s blush and the sudden gravity of her face.
“She’s got ’em all cinched up there at the inn,” he rattled on. “Have to stand in line now to get an hour of her. Good-by, Betsy—I don’t have to call you Mrs. Salter, do I?”
The bride laughed and reassured him, and with a few more words the young people disappeared.
“Who’s he?” asked Mrs. Pogram sepulchrally.