“Rosemary, my dear, I wish you would not dance all the time with young Roland Bayard when you happen to be at a party with him,” said the grave and dignified Miss Susannah Grandiere to the fair little niece who sat at her feet, both literally and figuratively.
The early tea was over at Grove Hill, and the aunt and niece sat before the fire, with their maid Henny in attendance.
Miss Grandiere was knitting a fine white lamb’s wool stocking; Rosemary was sewing together pieces for a patchwork quilt; and Henny, seated on a three-legged stool in the chimney corner, was carding wool.
“Why not, Aunt Sukey?” inquired the child, pushing the fine, silky black curls from her dainty forehead and looking up from her work.
“Because, my dear, though you are but a little girl, and he is almost a young man, yet these intimate friendships, formed in early youth, may become very embarrassing in later years,” gravely answered the lady, drawing out her knitting needle from the last taken off stitch and beginning another round.
“But how, Aunt Sukey?” questioned the little one.
“In this way. No one knows who Roland Bayard is! He was cast up from the wreck of the Carrier Pigeon, the only life saved. He was adopted and reared by Miss Sibby Bayard, and I think, but am not sure, he was educated at the expense of Abel Force, who never lets his left hand know what his right hand does in the way of charity. But Miss Sibby has hinted as much to me.”
“Aunt Sukey, he may be the son of a lord, or a duke, or a prince,” suggested romantic Rosemary.
“Or of a thief, or pirate, or convict,” added Miss Grandiere, severely.
“Oh, Aunt Sukey! Never! Never! Dear Roland! Aunt Sukey, I like Roland so much! And I have good reason to like him, too, whatever he may be!” exclaimed the child, with more than usual earnestness.