The dogs ran forward and were approaching the Mayflower’s camp-stool in the manner of welcome and familiar friends, when their master harshly called them back, and, hearing his voice, the Mayflower looked round just in time to see the young man savagely strike one of the dogs with a whip which he had drawn from his pocket.
The poor beast yelled and shrank back, and the Mayflower rose indignantly, her fair face flushing as she did so.
“Oh, Mr. Henderson, what a shame!” she cried. “What are you striking the poor dog for?”
The young man, on being thus addressed, came forward, and there was a flush on his handsome face also, as he approached the girl. John Temple did not move; he lay looking up at two figures before him.
“Why did you strike Juno?” repeated the Mayflower, as the young man drew near.
He raised his cloth cap as he answered, and his brown eyes fell.
“One must keep them in order,” he said, half-sullenly.
“But Juno was doing nothing. Come here, poor Juno; I hate cruelty.”
“Yet you sometimes practice it,” retorted the young man in a low tone.
He was singularly striking looking. Tall and splendidly formed, with features—though he was as brown as a gypsy—of remarkable regularity. It was indeed impossible not to remark on his personal appearance. The one defect on his face, perhaps, was his mouth, which was sensual looking, though shaded by a thick, crisp, brown mustache. Still, he was a splendid specimen of young manhood, and John Temple, from his vantage ground, mentally, distinctly admitted this. Yet, in spite of all his physical advantages; in spite, also, of being undoubtedly well-dressed, there was a certain countrified look about him which was almost indescribable.