Beatrice’s eyes had been roving about the room, observing the white birch log on the hearth, the tawny-orange shade of the homespun curtains, and even the pictures on the wall.
“Why,” she exclaimed, her glance arrested by a photograph hanging near the window, “we have that same picture at home, in my father’s study. It is of the school where he used to go.”
Hester looked up at the vine-covered archway showing a tree-lined walk beyond.
“I don’t know where Roddy got it,” she said. “It has always been there, over his desk, for as long as I can remember.”
“Who is Roddy, your brother?” Beatrice asked.
“No, he is my—my sort of father, but not really. He is too young to be my father, I suppose. He adopted me when I was very little. His name is John Rodman Herrick, so, as he’s only fifteen years older, I call him Roddy. I can’t remember when I didn’t live in this house with him, and with old Julia and her husband Tim, to do the work for us. There is Roddy now.”
The stride of heavy boots sounded along the veranda, and a man came in, a handsome vigorous person who, as Hester had said, looked too young to be her father. Nor were they the least alike in appearance, since he was very fair, with thick, light hair and blue eyes that contrasted oddly with his very sunburnt skin. He wore ordinary riding clothes, but seemed to carry an air of distinction in his clean-cut profile and straight shoulders.
He listened to Hester’s rather confused account of Beatrice’s arrival and shook hands with her gravely.
“Are you going to be comfortable in the cabin?” he asked. “Who is helping you get settled?”
“There is a Finnish woman who is doing everything for us,” Beatrice told him. “I have never seen any one who worked so hard.”