Mr. Templeton’s expression was inscrutable. “Why, yes, Miss Muriel; in a way your father might be called a farmer. All kinds of vegetables and stock are raised on his place. But—er—he doesn’t wield the pitchfork himself these days. He is rather too prosperous for that.”
How glad the girl was when they were out on the open road. The hawthorn hedges were white with bloom and so high that in many places they could not see over them into the parklike grounds they were passing.
Suddenly Muriel touched Mr. Templeton’s arm and lifted a glowing face. “Hark!” she whispered. “Did you hear it? Over there in the hedgerow. There it is again. Oh, I know him! Miss Gordon has often read the poem.
“‘That’s the wise thrush. He sings each song twice over
Lest you think he could never recapture
That first fine, careless rapture.’
“Do you like Browning’s poetry, Mr. Templeton?”
“Well, really, Miss Muriel, I’ve never had much time to read verse; been too busy studying law. But your farmer-father sets quite a store by the poets, he tells me.”
“I’m so glad!” was the radiant reply. Then the girl fell to musing. How she hoped that her dear mother knew that at last she was going to the poor artist whom she had so loved.
“How long will it be before we reach the farming district, Mr. Templeton?” The girl was again gazing out of the window at her side. “These homes that we are passing are like the great old castles I have read about in Scott’s books and Thackeray’s.”