"Harriet," said Campbell as the carriage drove back across the square, the father and daughter waving their hands to Lloyd, briskly on her way to the railroad station, "Harriet."
"Yes, papa."
"There goes a noble woman. Pluck, intelligence, strong will—she has them all—and a great big heart that—heart that—" He clipped the end of a cigar thoughtfully and fell silent.
A day or two later, as Hattie was sitting in her little wheel-chair on the veranda of Mrs. Applegate's house watching Charley-Joe hunting grasshoppers underneath the currant bushes, she was surprised by the sharp closing of the front gate. A huge man with one squint eye and a heavy, square-cut jaw was coming up the walk, followed by a strange-looking dog. Charley-Joe withdrew, swiftly to his particular hole under the veranda, moving rapidly, his body low to the ground, and taking an unnecessary number of very short steps.
The little city-bred girl distinguished the visitor from a country man at once. Hattie had ideas of her own as to propriety, and so rose to her feet as Bennett came up, and after a moment's hesitation made him a little bow. Bennett at once gravely took off his cap.
"Excuse me," he said as though Hattie were twenty-five instead of twelve. "Is Miss Searight at home?"
"Oh," exclaimed Hattie, delighted, "do you know Miss Searight? She was my nurse when I was so sick—because you know I had hip disease and there was an operation. No, she's not here any more. She's gone away, gone back to the City."
"Gone back to the City?"
"Yes, three or four days ago. But I'm going to write to her this afternoon. Shall I say who called?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she added, "I guess I had better introduce myself. My name is Harriet Campbell, and my papa is Craig V. Campbell, of the Hercules Wrought Steel Company in the City. Won't you have a chair?"
The little convalescent and the arctic explorer shook hands with great solemnity.