“That's good, that's good!” the old man exclaimed. “Your grandmother was a good woman to work.”
“Grandfather, this is Mr. Havelock,” said Betsey, as she presented me.
“How d' do?” snapped the old gentleman, looking sharply into my face. Then he turned to Betsey and said: “Don't be in a hurry to get married. There are plenty of fish in the sea, girl—plenty of fish. Huh! Tell your father that I am very much pleased with the last news of him—very much pleased; but I shall not trust him again—never, nor any of them except you.”
A man was waiting for him in a buggy outside the door. I withdrew a little, and waited while Betsey spoke with the old gentleman. The girl joined me as her grandfather drove away, and together we walked down the hills to Griggsby, that lovely afternoon of the early summer. We talked of many things, and always when I have thought of that hour I have heard the hum of new life in ponds and marshes and seen the light of a day's end glowing on windows, woods, and hills, and felt the joy of youth again.
“You are a friend of Florence Dunbar,” said Betsey, as we were crossing a field. “She has told me lots about you.”
“I fear that I'm not much of a success either as a subject or a predicate,” I said.
“She thinks you are a great hero, and there are others who think it, too.”
I blushed and stumbled a little in trying to say:
“Well—it—it isn't my fault. I've—I've done my best to—to keep her from making any mistake.”
“We've been hoping that you and she would make a match,” the little school teacher went on.