“Listen to me! Mr. Fulrake was not insultingly rude. I merely meant that he answered me rather shortly when I laughed at his wetting his grand shoes.”
Mat, who was secretly pleased to find that Fulrake had been sent to the rightabout by Annie, now said,—
“That is different. I will tell you what I was thinking of. Of going back to the old country.”
“What! Leaving us, after you said you would stay? Leaving all your friends?”
“Would you be very sorry if I did go, Miss Annie?”
“Yes, I should be very sorry indeed.”
“Then forgive me for appearing so shifty. I expect that I got rather stupid trying to understand accounts and figures, and such things, in those papers;” and Mat pointed to a pile of documents which littered one of the tables near him, and which he had attempted to study after his visit to the stockyard, but had given up the attempt, and strolled into the night air to think of Annie.
“And now,” said Annie, with a smile, “I must go in, so you may give me an arm up the verandah steps.”
One conclusion which Mat arrived at after the foregoing conversation was that he would still consult the parson on the morrow. The clergyman had on more than one occasion given him good, hearty advice, and he therefore again sought him.
Parson Tabor was engaged writing when Mat walked into his room, but he got up with a smile of welcome and motioned him to a seat, saying, “You look rather fagged, Mat; not slept well?”