“Yes; I was going to,” said Alison, rising and leaving the room, to return in a few minutes with a frank, manly looking young fellow of seven or eight and twenty, whose face was of a rich, warm brown up to the centre of his forehead, and there became white up to his curly chestnut hair, which was a little darker than his crisp, closely cut beard.
“Ah, Beck, come over for a ride with us?” said Mr Elthorne. “How is the vicar?”
“Quite well, sir.”
“And Mrs Beck?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Alison was good enough to ask me to join your party.”
He shook hands with the ladies, and there was rather a conscious look between Isabel and the visitor as their hands joined—one which did not escape the head of the family.
“Sit down, Beck, sit down,” he said, cordially enough, all the same.
“Oh, I have breakfasted, sir.”
“Yes; we’re late,” said Mr Elthorne, with a look at Aunt Anne.
“That means it is my fault, Mr Beck,” said the lady; “but never mind, my dear, sit down and have some more. Sailors always have good appetites.”