“The needle to the pole, as he’d say,” laughed the other; “and if he’s that, what more would you have?”
“Who? I? Nothing, nothing. I only want to see the little lass happy. I’m sorry for Bray, though. I suppose he could not bear to see it, for he has gone.”
“Yes, he went long enough ago, scowling furiously. I hope, friend Lee, there will be no unpleasantry between them.”
“O, nonsense!” ejaculated the old settler; and farther converse was stopped by the entrance of the young people.
Story 3--Chapter IV.
Anthony’s Home.
Martin Lee was right; for, half-choked with rage, his neighbour, Anthony Bray, had hurried out into the open, glad to get away from a scene of happiness that tortured and cut him to the heart. What was this sailor—this mate of a ship—that he should be preferred? Kate Lee had never looked on him like that, in spite of all his pleading; her face had never worn those kind smiles, nor been suffused with those rosy blushes at his approach; and it was cruel work for him to have all his hopes dashed to the ground in an instant; now hopeful—the next moment, by the entry of one stranger, plunged into misery and despair.
He hurried away to get his horse, and ride homeward; but after reaching the shed, he felt that it would look strange and unneighbourly to hurry away; so he determined to walk on a little until he grew calmer, then to return and stay till his customary hour, and go, as if nothing unusual were the matter.
“Fine evening, sir,” said a shepherd, returning with his charge.