“I am Sidney Martin,” he continued, but got no further with his self-introduction.
“I’m right glad to see you,” said old Lansing heartily, “right glad to see you! So you’re old Sid’s son? Well, you don’t favour him no more than my girl favours me! I was struck all of a heap when Dr. Clement told me he knew old Sid’s son in Bosting; says I, ‘If that younker is like his father I should say he’d have a liking for the fields, even if he is Bosting born and bred.’ But there! How did you come? Is your things at the station? How long is it since old Sid died? A nice old boy was Sid! And he had a talent for finding wood-chucks that beat the dickens.”
“I lost my father four years ago,” said Sidney—“he often spoke of you.”
“I’ll warrant he did,” said old Lansing, “and my girls know old Sid as well as their next door neighbour. Sid weren’t one of the sort to go back on old times—girls”—raising his voice—“girls!”
The two girls reappeared side by side.
“This is Mr. Martin,” said the old man; “Old Sid Martin’s son.”
The girls gave him characteristic salutations. Vashti’s inclination was stately, with all the plastic grace of her beautiful form expressed in it. Mabella, to whose cheeks the soft rose had returned, bestowed upon him the tantalizing salutation of the born coquette, piquant, confident, but withal reserved.
“My daughter Vashti,” continued Mr. Lansing. “My niece Mabella”—and then—“Where’s Lanty?”
“He has gone home,” said Vashti; her voice was soft and full; a rarity in that region, and a heritage from the Lansings of old.