“Pooh! If lack-wit Ferd could paint Prince, as he did––another spirited horse, if you please––Antonio could do what he liked with Nero. It’s paint, of course, or something like it.”
“But the eyes? The eyes as we saw them on the road, a few hours back, were all on fire. You could see them almost before you could make out that it was a man on horseback was coming. Isn’t that so, Sharp?” demanded Ephraim, persistent to the last.
Jessica turned upon him, triumphantly:
“There! I knew from the way you two looked when we were talking a little while ago that you’d seen something out of common! Do tell me about it, please. Do, do!”
Ninian laughed, glanced at his hostess’ face, and replied:
“That’s a story will keep, and you should be in bed. I don’t want to have my coming harm you when I meant it to do you good. Even such a courageous child as you ought to sleep a great deal.”
She had been courageous, indeed, and had astonished him by a coolness and readiness of observation which would have done credit to a much older person. He began to realize how different she was 174 from other children of her age, and how the hardihood of her rearing had developed qualities that were quite unchildlike. He wondered how she would adapt herself to the habits and thoughts of other girls of her own age, and was not surprised that Mrs. Trent craved such society for her. He wished that he might see her placed in some good school, yet was doubtful if just the right one could be selected for a pupil so different from ordinary. However, that was not his affair, and to relieve the family of his further presence at that late hour undoubtedly was. So he bade them all good-night and went to his room, and very shortly afterward everybody under that roof was sound asleep.
“Oh, what a dreamless, delicious rest I’ve had!” was the visitor’s waking thought. His next, that it must be very late and that he had put his hostess to unnecessary trouble. Then he turned over “for just one more wink” and slumbered on for another couple of hours. This time he had dreams in plenty; and finally roused from one, of beautiful gardens peopled by harmless “spooks,” to a sound of sweet music. By his watch he saw that it was eleven o’clock and remembered that it was Sunday. Also, the music was that of a familiar hymn, played upon a fine piano, which was taken up and sung by a choir of mixed voices, from the childish treble of the two little lads to the stentorian bass of Samson, the mighty.
Hastily dressing, Ninian slipped quietly down the stairs and entered the sunny parlor; where Jessica motioned to a chair which had evidently been reserved for him, and softly approached him with an open hymn book.
It was Mrs. Trent at the piano and her rich soprano voice faultlessly led her straggling chorus, 175 filled for the most part by the men grouped outside on the wide porch. He could see them through the long, French windows, sitting or standing as each felt inclined, but all with that earnest seriousness of demeanor which befitted the day and the task. For task it evidently was to some of them; John Benton, for example. He stood alone, at the most upright post attainable, his book at arm’s length, and his head moving from side to side, following the lines, with a little upward toss of it as he reached the end of each, while from his throat issued most startling tones.