He stepped to the door, stuck his head into the hall, and called at the top of his voice, “Chris.... tine!”
“Yes.”
The word tinkled musically in the distance.
“Come down here to the parlor, will ye?”
“Yes, father.”
Elias's pulse bounded. Did he indeed recognize the voice? What a ninny he had been making of himself! How inordinately dense, not to have guessed their relationship from old Redwood's assurance in answering for her. He felt awkward and embarrassed; and yet he felt a certain excitement that was not at all unpleasant.
“Mr. Bacharach, permit me to make you acquainted with my daughter, Miss Christine Redwood,” said the old man.
Elias bowed, but dared not look at her to whom he bowed. He heard her bid him a silvery good-evening. Then he stole a side glance. Yes, it was she, she of the golden locks.
“Ha-ha-ha!” roared old Redwood. “Quite a surprise, eh, Mr. Bacharach?”
“A—a delightful one, I'm sure,” stammered Elias.