"We-ll," he returned, his sharp eyes resting on the pointed firs,—"from the rosy-cloud altitude, of course, of course."
"Then you don't like her?" cried Sylvia hopefully.
"Of course I do," returned the lawyer hastily. "Most certainly. A very fine woman; a capable woman in every way." As he spoke he scanned the banks uneasily, as though fearing that Martha might have repented of her refusal to come in his place, and had followed him. "She is most worthy of respect and—and"—his voice trailed away into silence. "Give her a hand up, too, Sylvia," he added after a moment, "and we'll all let bygones be bygones together. What do you say?"
"It's easier to have you with me, Uncle Calvin," returned Sylvia naïvely.
The judge felt the embarrassment of guilt. This was the result of his leaving Martha to bear the heat and burden of Hotel Frisbie alone. Hers had been the hours of tears and anxiety. He had kept on the even tenor of his legal way, troubling himself about nothing, and his negative misdemeanors were less heavily visited upon him. Compared to himself Martha was innocent; and it was the way of the world that such should suffer always with the guilty, and sometimes even in their place. He told himself, however, that his tenure on the situation was too light to be risked. He took ignoble refuge in generalities.
"Don't rely too much on first impressions, Sylvia. Your Aunt Martha has grieved about you. Remember, 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' Moreover,"—the speaker's lips twitched again,—"what will Thinkright say if you refuse her standing-room on our cloud? Consider well!"
Sylvia smiled through bright drops.
"Now, then, change seats with me," continued the judge, "and I'll row you in."
At the same moment Thinkright, having been absent for hours on some errand, was being greeted on his return by Mrs. Lem, who came out to the doorstep to meet him.
"Guess who's come," she said.