Dan looked after the horse and rider until they passed slowly out of sight; then, coming back to the porch, he sat down among the farmers, and listened, abstractedly, to the drawling voice of Jack Hicks.
When Champe reached Chericoke, he saw Betty looking for him from Aunt Emmeline's window seat; and as he dismounted, she ran out and joined him upon the steps.
“And you saw him?” she asked breathlessly.
“It was pleasant to think that you came to meet me for my own sake,” he returned; and at her impatient gesture, caught her hand and looked into her eyes.
“I saw him, my dear,” he said, “and he was in a temper that would have proved his descent had he been lost in infancy.”
She eagerly questioned him, and he answered with forbearing amusement. “Is that all?” she asked at last, and when he nodded, smiling, she went up to Mrs. Lightfoot's bedside and besought her “to make the Major listen to reason.”
“He never listened to it in his life, my child,” the old lady replied, “and I think it is hardly to be expected of him that he should begin at his present age.” Then she gathered, bit by bit, the news that Champe had brought, and ended by remarking that “the ways of men and boys were past finding out.”
“Do you think the Major will ever forgive him?” asked Betty, hopelessly.
“He never forgave poor Jane,” answered Mrs. Lightfoot, her voice breaking at the mention of her daughter. “But whether he forgives him or not, the silly boy must be made to come home; and as soon as I am out of this bed, I must get into the coach and drive to that God-forsaken tavern. After ten years, nothing will content them, I suppose, but that I should jolt my bones to pieces.”
Betty looked at her anxiously. “When will you be up?” she inquired, flushing, as the old lady's sharp eyes pierced her through.