"It was very kind of you," resumed the lady, "to pay us this compliment. How very anxious they must be to see you."
"And I am equally anxious to see them," he replied; "but I could not pass without seeing you—just for a few minutes." Then turning to Mattie, he exchanged kisses with her, kissed her good-night, to the great distress of her mother, who was compelled to look on. He also promised to call early in the morning, spend most of the day, and give an account of his voyage.
A minute more and he was seated in a wagon beside Bright, and proceeding over the road toward Hanz's little house.
When he was gone, and the Chapmans had retired to their room, "Ma," said Mattie, her face coloring with feeling, "it was very unkind, even cruel of you to treat the young gentleman so coldly."
"Done to balance the familiarity, my daughter—the familiarity! Needed something to balance that," interrupted the lady, bowing her head formally. "Young man looks respectable enough. He may have come home and not a sixpence in his pocket—who knows? In these matters, my daughter, it's always best to know where the line is drawn before building your house."
"He might have come home penniless; it would not have made a bit of difference to me, mother, I would love him just as much," replied Mattie. "But I can forgive you, ma, for I know you did not mean what you said." And she kissed her mother, and retired for the night, the happiest woman in all Nyack.