“I won’t forget to thank Him when I say my prayers to-night.”
“No more will I.”
“Well, good-bye again, David Lindsay.”
“Good-bye.” He did not want to call her Miss de la Vera, much less Miss Gloria; he could not call her little Glo’. He felt, without in the least understanding his feelings, that the first style would be too cold and stiff, and the last perhaps too familiar, so he called her “you,” putting all respect in his low and modulated tone. There was much of nature’s gentleman in this poor little lad in the ragged straw hat.
He waited, hat in hand, until she had turned and tripped lightly over the broken sea-wall and passed out of sight.
Then he covered his head, sat down in his boat, took the oar and reluctantly shoved off from the shore, while she ran home, singing and dancing as she went.
She ran into the house and went directly to seek Sophia.
“Have they been worried about me, ’Phia?” she inquired.
“No, honey; dey’s been too much took up wid ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ ’bout yes’day’s fuss to fink ’bout you. Leastways, mist’ess was; dough marster did ’quire arter you when dey sat down to dinner an’ you wa’n’t dere. Says he:
“‘Whey’s de chile?’