“My niece, Peggy,” added the merchant. “My dear, this is young Mr. Prentiss, who was of such use to me some few weeks ago when my villainous temper got me into trouble.”
Peggy swept the young New Englander so elaborate a courtsey that it hinted of mockery. The smile that wreathed her lips was honeyed, but the old look of scorn was deep in her eyes.
“I remember Mr. Prentiss perfectly,” she said, and there was an undercurrent of meaning in her tones.
“You shall sit opposite him at supper,” promised the stout old fellow. “And mind you entertain him well. We owe him something.”
“Mr. Prentiss,” said Peggy, “should not be difficult to amuse. He is so interesting himself. I feel sure that wherever he is, something will happen; one is not likely to be dull.”
“Ha, ha! do you hear that, lad?” Merchant Camp chuckled delightedly. “That’s saying something of you, surely.”
“I don’t deserve it, though,” answered George, and his eyes met the girl’s straightforward look unsmilingly.
“Never say that,” cried the honest old uncle. “Leave others to speak ill of you, my boy.”
“Apparently,” said George, his eyes still meeting those of Peggy, “they are only too ready to do that.”
“Why,” said the old gentleman, “you are over young to have observed such things.”