I told him my name and where I lived, and that I was going to the Falls, Monday, and working for my board meanwhile.
“Ah, ha!” said he, stroking his white mustache and imperial, “so you're from the land of Silas Wright?”
“Yes, sir,”
He asked about certain good people that he had known in my county, and then said: “This is no kind of work for you to be doing. Pack your grip and come home with me. You may share my room, and stay as long as you like.”
Well, the end of it was that I went home with Colonel Busby—that being his name—soldier, orator, philosopher. He and his daughter—a girl of about my age—were alone in the house with one servant.
“Jo,” said he to the girl, as we entered, “this is a high-stepper from St. Lawrence County, and a friend of mine. His name is Cricket Heron.”
The girl gave me her hand, and said, laughingly, that her name was Josephine. She was tall and slender, and I remember thinking that she had almost a woman's look in her dark eyes.
After supper the Colonel said he was going over town and would return presently.
His daughter made me feel at home, and had pretty manners, and a sweet, girlish way of talking, and that charm of youth which has no suspicion of its riches.
First of all, I think of her mouth—perfect in its curves and color. Out of it came joy and careless words set in wonderful music. What a voice! Upon my honor, sometimes it was like a scale played on the flute. We all know the music—that ringing of the golden bowl of youth when Pleasure touches it, and know, too, how soon the bowl is broken. She sang and played upon the guitar, and talked, and this, above all, I remember: she seemed unconscious of herself and of her power over my foolish heart. We compared our knowledge of poetry and romance, our aims and ideals, our tastes and pleasures.