The doctor was not in the room, and Traverse, in his native modesty, was just about to retreat when the young creature looked up from her book and, seeing him, arose with a smile and came forward, saying:
"You are the young man whom my father was expecting, I presume. Sit down; he has stepped out, but will be in again very soon."
Now, Traverse, being unaccustomed to the society of young ladies, felt excessively bashful when suddenly coming into the presence of this refined and lovely girl. With a low bow and a deep blush he took the chair she placed for him.
With natural politeness she closed her book and addressed herself to entertaining him.
"I have heard that your mother is an invalid; I hope she is better."
"I thank you—yes, ma'am—miss," stammered Traverse, in painful embarrassment. Understanding the mauvaise honte of the bashful boy, and seeing that her efforts to entertain only troubled him, she placed the newspapers on the table before him, saying:
"Here are the morning journals, if you would like to look over them, Mr. Rocke," and then she resumed her book.
"I thank you, miss," replied the youth, taking up a paper, more for the purpose of covering up his embarrassment than for any other.
Mr. Rocke! Traverse was seventeen years of age, and had never been called Mr. Rocke before. This young girl was the very first to compliment him with the manly title, and he felt a boyish gratitude to her and a harmless wish that his well-brushed Sunday suit of black was not quite so rusty and threadbare, tempered by an innocent exultation in the thought that no gentleman in the land could exhibit fresher linen, brighter shoes or cleaner hands than himself.
But not many seconds were spent in such egotism. He stole a glance at his lovely companion sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace—he was glad to see that she was already deeply engaged in reading, for it enabled him to observe her without embarrassment or offense. He had scarcely dared to look at her before, and had no distinct idea of her beauty.