“I really do not know, Joe; don’t you?”
“I can’t say, Betty, can’t say at all;” and Betty, casting a hasty glance at his face, was met by so serene a smile that she comfortably assured herself, “It was not they, or they didn’t see.”
“We’re going to have a little company to-night, and some games in the old mill,” said Abby presently. “Will you both come? And if the young gentlewoman at your house would like to make one of the guests, we’re more than happy to have her.”
“My mother is beholden to you for remembering her companion, but I doubt if Gillian Brewster can be spared,” said William a little hastily, and perhaps a little haughtily, for he shrank from seeing the siren who had wrought such mischief among some of his friends introduced to others under shelter of his mother’s name. But Joseph, heedless of his brother’s tone and only half hearing his words, replied almost in the same breath,—
“You’re very thoughtful, Abby, and I doubt not Gillian will like to come. I’ll bring her in my boat.”
“Gillian Brewster!” murmured Betty in a tone of dismay that drew William Bradford’s attention to her face, suddenly pale and disturbed, and going close to the girl who had been to him almost a sister for the first ten years of their lives, he whispered, “Shall I prevent it, Betty?”
“No, no, Will! Why should I care? She’s naught to me.”
“Nay, I thought”—
“’Tis a poor custom, Will; better break it off while you can.”
“The custom of thinking?”