“No, I need nothing,” said Bonny, and moved to the door, nodding her head brightly toward her old gentleman, but casting rather wistful glances at the counters full of beautiful blossoms as she passed them on her way.
“Wait a moment! Wait a moment, my dear! I have heard your name, you see. Your sister spoke it. Here is my card; and if you will not tell me where you live that I may call and thank you, at least let me give you a posy before we part. Pick out what you like. Pick out what you like, my dear, and I will pay for it. Here is my card,—Philipse Chidly Brook, New Windsor, New York. Everybody thereabouts knows me, as everybody hereabouts used to know me half a century ago,
‘When I was young as you are young,
And love-lights in the casement hung.’”
Bonny dropped her hand from the door-knob. “Why, that is Thackeray, sir! So you know him, too?”
“Beatrice Beckwith! Will you—or will you not—come? I—am—going!” cried the indignant Isabelle, moving slowly away from her ill-conducted little sister. She was greatly shocked and mortified by Bonny’s readiness to take up with anything and anybody, and was quite justified in her feeling; for in most cases there is danger in any girl following a stranger, for even so slight a distance as Bonny had done, in a great city like New York.
But this time she happened to be safe enough. Old Chidly Brook was a gentleman if ever one lived; and queer and quaint as he now appeared, time had been when he was a great favorite even in the most exclusive circles of New York’s best society.
“My dear, my age is sufficient guaranty of my honor. Do allow me to give you a little bouquet of some sort. No? Then—have you a mother?”
“Certainly. I have a dear, dear mother, who will be troubled if I stay from home longer. Good-by.”
“Her name? Her number? I must be allowed to call and pay her my respects!” In his eagerness, which was almost childish, the old man laid his thin hand upon Bonny’s wrist.
She glanced down upon it; its delicacy and refinement appealed to her; she longed to know more of its owner, and replied: “My mother is Mrs. Rachel Beckwith, Number Blank, Second Avenue.” Then she darted out of the shop and tried to look defiantly into the vexed face of her pretty sister Belle.