"Well, I'm sure, I hope he will. He isn't Herbert, of course, but he knows Herbert."
"He—does, mother." There was a little break in Helen's voice, but Mrs.
Raymond did not notice it.
"Dearie me! Well, he's gone now, and I am hungry. My dinner didn't seem to please, somehow."
"Why, mother, it was n't—codfish; was it?"
"N-no. It was chicken. But then, like enough it will be codfish to-morrow."
Helen Raymond dreamed that night, and she dreamed of love, and youth, and laughter. But it was not the shimmer of spangled tulle nor the chatter of merry girls that called it forth. It was the look in a pair of steadfast blue eyes, and the grip of a strong man's hand.
A Mushroom of Collingsville
There were three men in the hotel office that Monday evening: Jared Parker, the proprietor; Seth Wilber, town authority on all things past and present; and John Fletcher, known in Collingsville as "The Squire"—possibly because of his smattering of Blackstone; probably because of his silk hat and five-thousand-dollar bank account. Each of the three men eyed with unabashed curiosity the stranger in the doorway.
"Good-evening, gentlemen," began a deprecatory voice. "I—er—this is the hotel?"
In a trice Jared Parker was behind the short counter.