"That's where you and I don't agree."
"I think it's rather mean of you, Maurice Walton, to come here to slander a friend."
"He isn't my friend. Perhaps he is yours."
"You are right there," said Bessie, firmly. "He is my friend."
"Perhaps, when he gets that fortune, you'll marry him?" said Maurice, sarcastically.
"He hasn't asked me yet," said Bessie, blushing.
This was too much for Maurice. He began to see that Bessie liked Gilbert more than he suspected, and that, by his blundering, he had only helped matters along. He sulkily bade his cousin good-night, and, returning home, bethought himself of his promise to Mr. Grey, and, though it was late, sat down and wrote him a letter.
CHAPTER XXVII.
JAMES GREY'S RESIDENCE.
About a mile from the bank of the Mississippi River, in the small town of Clayton, stood a handsome house. It was on a commanding site, and could be seen by the travelers bound up the river, from the decks of the large river-boats. It stood in lonely grandeur, with no other houses very near, and those that were within a respectful distance from it were far inferior. The occupant might be judged to be, in his neighborhood, a person of some consideration.