“Thank you; no,” said Prayle, with a grave smile. “I never smoke.”
“Good young man!” said the doctor to himself as he lit up.
“Man after your own heart, aunt,” said Scarlett merrily, as he resumed his oar; and for the next half-hour they rowed about over the swiftly running water, now dyed with many a hue, the reflections from the gorgeous clouds that hovered over the ruddy sinking sun. The dancing wavelets flashed and sparkled with orange and gold: the shadows grew more intense, beneath the trees; while in one portion of the weir, where a pile or two had rotted away, the water ran down in one smooth soft curve, like so much molten metal poured from some mighty furnace into the hissing, boiling stream below.
“I never saw it so beautiful before,” cried Scarlett excitedly. “It is lovely indeed.—Look, aunt.—Why, Arthur, it was worth a journey to see.”
“The place is like one seen in some vision of the night,” said Prayle softly.
“Hah! yes,” exclaimed the doctor thoughtfully; “it is enough to tempt a man to give up town.”
“Do, old fellow, and you shall have us Impatients,” cried Scarlett, “We never want a doctor, and I hope we never shall.”
“Amen to that!” said Scales, in a low, serious tone. “Ah!” he continued, “what a pity it seems that we have so few of these heavenly days.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Scarlett. “Makes us appreciate them all the more.”
“I think these things are best as they are,” said Prayle in his soft dreamy tenor. “Yes; all is for the best.”