“Well, I don’t know,” said John, quietly; “a mug of squire’s ale is nice, if Luke there will have one too.”
“Oh! I’ll join,” said Luke, heartily; and, after drawing it, Sage went up with Rue to her room, and she began to tease her about Luke, but ended with an affectionate embrace.
“I’d marry him any time, dear,” she said, “for I think he’s a good fellow, and if you are as happy as I am with dear old John you will be satisfied.”
“But uncle has said that it is not to be till Luke has five hundred a year,” said Sage, dreamily, “and that will not be for a long time; and—and, Rue, dear,” she faltered, “I—I don’t think I feel quite happy about it.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Sagey! Uncle will come round. He wants to see us quite happy.”
“But you misunderstand me, dear,” said Sage, thoughtfully. “I mean that I’m half afraid I’m not doing right in letting Luke Ross believe I love him, because—because—”
“Because—because you are a goose,” cried Rue, merrily. “I felt just the same about John, and was ready to break it off, and now I think him the dearest and best fellow under the sun. Sage, dear.”
“Yes, Rue.”
“You are in the sugar-plum stage just now, and don’t know your own mind. I like Luke Ross. He’s frank and straightforward. Don’t play with him, for he’s a man to be trusted, and you’re lucky to have him care for you.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sage, dreamily; “but it is not to be for a long time yet.”