"A queer day, my dear!" ejaculated Miss Belinda. "I thought it a charming day."
"So it has been," said Octavia, which Miss Belinda thought rather inconsistent.
Both of them grew rather restless as they neared the house.
"To think," said Miss Belinda, "of my seeing poor Martin again!"
"Suppose," said Octavia nervously, as they drew up, "suppose they are here—already."
"They?" exclaimed Miss Belinda. "Who"—but she got no farther. A cry burst from Octavia,—a queer, soft little cry. "They are here," she said: "they are! Jack—Jack!"
And she was out of the carriage; and Miss Belinda, following her closely, was horrified to see her caught at once in the embrace of a tall, bronzed young man, who, a moment after, drew her into the little parlor, and shut the door.
Mr. Martin Bassett, who was big and sunburned, and prosperous-looking, stood in the passage, smiling triumphantly.
"M—M—Martin!" gasped Miss Belinda. "What—oh, what does this mean?"
Martin Bassett led her to a seat, and smiled more triumphantly still.