"It's a confounded mischance," his lips said heartily, but his thoughts added—"for everybody but me." He went on quickly, "You mustn't stay out here. How long have you been out?" He touched her hair. "Why, it's soaking wet. Come in, child."
He kept firm hold of one hand and drew her with him in a rapid progress to the porch. The moment the light fell on her face he was expectantly studying it, and when he had her in the hall under the stronger rays he stood still and looked at her as if he wanted to make up for months of deprivation. She turned a rosy red under his scrutiny, her cheeks looking like moist but vivid flowers, drops of rain sparkling in her hair and clinging even to her lashes.
"Come in by the fire and dry your hair," he commanded.
She shook her head and drew away her hand. "No, I'll run up and dry everything at once."
"You won't be all the evening about it?" he questioned, with suspicion, for her attitude suggested flight.
"How can I tell?" The old mischief looked out of her eyes.
He took a step toward her. "Come and get the first wet off by the fire," he urged.
But, laughing, she fled up the stairs.
"I didn't know he was such a distinguished-looking person," she was owning to herself as she ran along the upper hall. "Why, he's grown so much heavier and handsomer I'm actually afraid of him—it doesn't seem like the same Jarvis Burnside I've known so long. He's—he's—what Dorothy Chase would call stunning! I never supposed that farming would have that effect on anybody."
Then she rushed into her own room to find it in spotless order, with evidences of Joanna's recent presence in a brisk little fire burning in the small bedroom fireplace, the freshest of appointments everywhere, and a trimly bright lamp upon the old cherry dressing-table which had come from New Hampshire among Uncle Timothy's furniture.