Hope and Gabriel turned at the same moment, and beheld Abel Newt entering the room gayly, with a sketch in his hand. He nodded to Gabriel without speaking, but went directly to Hope and showed her the drawing.
“There, that will do for a beginning, will it not?”
It was a bold, dashing sketch. The pine-trees, the windows, the piazzas—yes, she saw them all. They had a new charm in her eyes.
“That tree comes a little nearer that window,” said she.
“How do you know it does?” he replied. “You, who only draw from books?”
“I think I ought to know the tree that I see every day at my own window!”
“Oh! that is your window!”
Gabriel was confounded at this sudden incursion and apparent resumption of a previous conversation. As he ran up the avenue he had not remarked Abel sketching on the lawn. But Abel, sketching on the lawn, had observed Gabriel running up the avenue, and therefore happened in to ask Miss Wayne’s opinion of his drawing. He chatted merrily on:
“Why, there’s your grandpapa when he was a little grand-baby and had an old grandpapa in his turn,” said he, pointing at the portrait he had remarked upon his previous visit in that parlor. “What a funny little old fellow! Let me see. Gracious! ‘twas before the Revolution. Ah! now, if he could only speak and tell us just what he saw in the room where they were painting him—what he had for breakfast, for instance—what those dear little ridiculous waistcoats, with all their flowery embroidery, cost a yard, say—yes, yes, and what book that is—and who gave him the hoop—”
He rattled on. Never in Hope’s lifetime had such sounds of gay speech been heard in that well-arranged and well-behaved parlor. They seemed to light it up. The rapid talk bubbled like music.