“And now, dear Rosalie, I must leave you here, at least till noon.”
“You must?”
“Yes; there is much to be done, that must be done immediately. Lauderdale’s deserted law office must be opened and aired, and my sign—or shingle, as the folks here call it—tacked up, and the place generally prepared for the transaction of any business that may turn up. Then I have to write and send off an advertisement to the nearest newspaper—which, by the way, is published in a town thirty miles distant. And lastly, dear Rose, I have to look up a cabin, or part of a frame house, where ‘two mortal mice,’ like you and I, may go to housekeeping. Whether all this can be accomplished in a forenoon, or not, I do not know; but, at all events, I shall try to be back again at twelve. Good bye.”
And, pressing her hand, he left her.
Rosalie seated herself by the window, and looked out upon the new country. From the river, and from the grove that crowned the bluff on which the village was situated, the country stretched eastward, out and out—a high, level, and limitless prairie, its flat and green monotony broken, at wide intervals, by groves similar to this which surrounded S——, and relieved by countless millions of wild flowers, whose rich, gorgeous, and brilliant hues surpassed anything the observer had ever seen before.
“What is that splendid scarlet flower that grows so tall, and is as abundant on the prairie as clover in our own fields?” inquired Rosalie.
“I reckon you are talking about the prairie pink; but I haven’t much time, myself, to take notice of flowers—’specially wild weeds,” replied the landlady, rattling the dishes and tea-cups, and bustling about between the cooking-stove, the table, and the cupboard.
“Are you not a Marylander?” asked Rosalie.
“Yes,” said the woman. “How did you know?”
“By your speech.”