As they sat side by side, the old gentleman with the child on his knee, Captain Rhines said,—
“I don’t see how anybody who ever saw Charlie could harbor any doubt about Mr. Bell’s being his father—they favor each other so much.”
“Ah, captain,” was the reply, “put an old, faded, red shirt on me, all stained up with osier sap, a tarpaulin hat, a bundle of baskets on my back, and, more than all, the heart-broken look I wore then, you yourself couldn’t have found much resemblance.”
As they returned to Pleasant Cove by the road that wound along the slope of land towards the house, skirting the sugar orchard, the sun, which was now getting low, illuminated with its level rays the whole declivity, falling off in natural terraces to the shore, and flashed upon the foliage of the rock-maples, now red as blood. Indian Island, with its high cliffs rising up from the glassy bosom of the bay, the white trunks and yellow leaves of its masses of tall birch contrasting with the darker hues of the oak and ash, with which the edges of the bank were fringed, presented a mingling of tints most delightful.
Mr. Bell, upon whom the glories of a New England forest in autumn produced all the effect of novelty, was, for a while, silent with wonder and delight.
He at length exclaimed, “How grand, how beautiful! And is all this land and forest yours, my son?”
“Yes, father, and a great deal more than you can see from here. I bought four hundred acres first, and two hundred more afterwards. Father, do you see that large island, with a cleared spot on the side of it?”
“With a house on it, that looks as though it were on fire, the sun is shining so bright on the windows?”