In a little while the Salters said good-night to their guests. “You can see, Irvin’, whether I’m hen-pecked,” said the captain meekly, as he mounted the stairs.
“You’re an awful warning,” replied Irving.
“Would it do any harm,” asked Hiram in a stage-whisper when they reached their room, “if I should yell down to ’em to look out the window and see the weddin’-cake?”
Betsy locked the door.
Rosalie was sitting passive on her stool by the fire. A rich color mantled in her cheeks, but eyes and lips were grave. She was regaining self-possession. Perhaps Irving had indeed come on account of the boat.
He seated himself in the chair Betsy had vacated, and watched the firelight play on Rosalie’s hair.
“How do you suppose it looks in the canyon to-night?” he asked, after a silence.
She shook her head. “I’m glad we can’t see.”
“And I,” he agreed. “I have it here.” He touched his breast.
“Tell me about Nixie, and Helen,” said Rosalie with sudden brightness.