“How do you feel this morning?” asked Mary, facing around from her first glance across the waters. He did not heed.
“See dat win’?” he asked, lifting one hand a little from the top of his staff.
“Yes,” responded Mary, eagerly; “why, it’s—hasn’t it—changed?”
“Yes, change’ las’ night ’fo’ went to bed.”
The old man’s manner betrayed his contempt for one who could be interested in such a change, and yet not know when it took place.
“Why, then,” began Mary, and started as if to take down the glass.
“What you doin’?” demanded its owner. “Better let glass ’lone; fool’ wid him enough.”
Mary flushed, and, with a smile of resentful apology, was about to reply, when he continued:—
“What you want glass for? Dare Peter’ schooner—right dare in bayou. What want glass for? Can’t see schooner hundred yard’ off ’dout glass?” And he turned away his poor wabbling head in disgust.
Mary looked an instant at two bare, rakish, yellow poles showing out against the clump of cypresses, and the trim little white hull and apple-green deck from which they sprang, then clasped her hands and ran into the house.