"Did he come about the tobacco, Beverly?" she asked.
Beverly rose languidly from the bench, and stood rubbing his hand across his forehead with an exhausted air.
"My head was very painful and he talked so rapidly I could hardly follow him," he replied; "but is it possible, Emily, that you have been digging in the garden?"
"There is nobody else to do it," replied Emily, with an impatient flash in her eyes; "only half the garden has been spaded. If you disapprove so heartily, I wish you'd produce someone to do the work."
Mrs. Brooke, who had produced nothing in her life except nine children, six of whom had died in infancy, offered at this a feeble and resigned rebuke.
"I am sure you could get Salem," she replied.
"We owe him already three months' wages," returned the girl, "I am still paying him for last autumn."
"All I ask of you, Emily, is peace," remarked Beverly, in a gentle voice, as he prepared to enter the house. "Nothing—no amount of brilliant argument can take the place of peace in a family circle. My poor head is almost distracted when you raise your voice."
The three children flocked out of the dining-room and came, with a rush, to fling themselves upon him. They adored him—and there was a live terrapin which they had brought in a box for him to see! In an instant his depression vanished, and he went off, his beautiful face beaming with animation, while the children clung rapturously to his corduroy coat.
"Amelia," said Emily, lowering her voice, "don't you think it would improve Beverly's health if he were to try working for an hour every day in the garden?"