“Oh!” said Ellinor again. Then, after a long and deliberate survey, the light of recognition dawned slowly in her eyes. “Oh, I do know you, don’t I? To be sure I do! You’re Mr.——the gentleman I met on Rainbow Mountain, near Mayhill,—Mr.—ah yes—Bransford!”
“Why, so I am!” said Jeff, leaning on the saddle-horn. One half of Mr. Bransford wondered if he had not been making a fool of himself and taking a great deal for granted: the other half, though considerably alarmed, was not at all deceived.
Miss Ellinor did not actually put her finger in the corner of her mouth—she merely looked as if she had. “Ah!—Won’t you ... get down?” she said helplessly. “What a beautiful horse!”
“Why, yes—thank you—I believe I will.”
He left the beautiful horse to stand with dangling reins, and came over to the bench, silent and rather grim.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Ellinor politely. “Fine day, isn’t it?”
“It’s a wonderful day—a marvelous day—a stupendous day!” said this exasperated young man. “No, I guess it’s not worth while to sit down. I just wanted to find out where you lived. I asked you once before, you know, and you didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t I? Oh, do sit down! You look so grumpy—tired, I mean.” Rather grudgingly, she swept the sewing basket from the bench to the grass.
Jeff’s eyes followed the action. He saw—if you call it seeing—the snipped threads on the grass, the yet unpicked bastings, white against the peach-pink facing; but he was a mere man, hardly-circumstanced, and these eloquent tidings were wasted upon his clumsy intellect: as had been the surprising good fortune of finding Miss Ellinor exactly where she was.
Nerving himself with memory of the Quaker Lady at the masquerade—if, indeed, that had ever really happened—Jeff took the offered seat.