CHAPTER III.
SORROWFUL MISGIVINGS.
Scarcely had Hope doffed her wet garments, and wrung the water from her hair, before she was summoned to the presence of her lady mother. It was a pleasant group, that of the accomplished family in the large hall, around which hung old portraits brought from England; the demi-armor still worn by the gentlemen of the day; the knightly sword, and shapely steel corslet; trophies of the hunt, and implements of the chase; belts of wampum, and models of birch canoes; bows and flint-tipped arrows. It was a silvan, stately room, such as taste, enterprise and thrift only could furnish forth in a family struggling to overcome the barbarisms of a new world.
In a stiff, high-backed chair, with cushions at her feet, sat the elegant matron of the household; her handsome daughters, each with book, music or broidery in hand, were gathered near her person, as if the companionship were mutually pleasant.
In the embrasure of the window, looking out upon the Pool, with the long reach of ocean in the distance, sat Sir Richard Vines himself, the perfection of manly grace and noble bearing, but now his brow was slightly contracted, and an uneasy flush was upon his cheek.
As little Hope entered the room, he held out his hand to her; she sprung forward and threw her arms about his neck. The knight returned her caress, and patting her cheek tenderly, said:
“Go to your mother, child.”
Hope had nearly crossed the room in obedience, when she suddenly turned round, saying, petulantly:
“She must not talk to me, papa; I am in a bad humor, and can not bear it.”