“Shall I tell you? Do you wish me to be perfectly frank?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot understand how a man such as you seem to be, young, educated, and with life before him, can be content to do as you do, spend your time in fishing, or sailing, or shooting. To have no ambition at all. My father was a poor country boy, like your friend, Mr. Taylor, but he worked night and day until he became what he is now. And even now he works, and works hard. Oh, I am proud of him! Not because he is what he is, but because he has done it all himself. If I were a man I would have some purpose in life; I would do SOMETHING worth while if it were only to sell fish from a cart, like that old fellow with the queer name—what is it?—Oh, yes! Theophilus Newcomb.”
I did not answer. She had said all that was necessary, and more. It was quite enough for me.
“There!” she observed, after a moment. “You asked me to tell you and I did. If you never speak to me again it will be exactly what I deserve. But I thought it and so I said it. Expressing my thoughts is one of my bad habits. . . . Oh, why, we are almost home, aren't we!”
We had come to the edge of the grove bordering Beriah Holt's pasture. The grove was on the west side of a little hill. Before us the pasture sloped away to Beriah's house and barn, with the road beyond it. And beyond that, in the distance, were the steeples and roofs of Denboro. Among them the gables and tower of the Colton mansion rose, conspicuous and costly.
She turned in the saddle. “I presume I may leave you now, Mr. Paine,” she said. “Even you must admit that the rest of the way is plain sailing. Thank you for your hospitality and for your services as guide. I will send the basket and net over by one of the servants.”
“I will take them now,” I said, shortly.
“Very well, if you prefer. Here they are.”
I took them from her.