“How delightful, and how romantic!” exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. “You must confide to me just how it seems to be—engaged. I’ve wondered about it so much.”
Jess determined to tell her new-found friend all about her betrothal, and how it came about, and also to confide to her the terrible secret that was gnawing her heart out, like a worm in the bud; that she hated the man, handsome though he was, to whom she had sent the note of acceptance just before she had started away on her trip, in accordance with the wishes of Mrs. Bryson, who had concluded that it was wisest and best to nail Jess down with a solemn promise, by post, which had been duly forwarded to the expectant lover at New Orleans on the morning on which Jess had left Blackheath Hall.
Yes, Jess concluded to tell Lucy all about it, but that could wait until after she had her bonnet off and had been in the house an hour, at least.
“Her coming is not so much to be feared, after all,” breathed Lucy, growing more amiable instantly. “I feared she would be trying to lure Mr. Moore, whom I have set my heart upon winning, away from me. He has not said so much as a word to me yet, but I am sure he intends to, else why is he lingering here when the doctor said that he could go his way, almost a week ago, if he so desired?
“His waiting to recuperate still further, as he called it, was merely an excuse to linger where I am, and he would not do that unless he was in love with me, and meant to propose to me, Ma says.”
For an hour or more, Mr. Moore lingered in the old garden, lost in deep thought. At length he retraced his steps slowly to the old farmhouse. Lucy was standing on the steps which led into the wide, cool kitchen.
“What do you think of our guest, Miss Jess?” she asked, displaying more anxiety in her tone than she was aware of.
“She impressed me very favorably at first sight,” he answered, adding: “I imagine she would wear well in a long and close acquaintance.”
“Do you think her pretty?” persisted Lucy, eagerly.
“Well, no, not as artists and critics define beauty. Still, she is scarcely more than a child at present. She may become, in the years to come, a girl who might be termed unusually handsome. Father Time is so prodigal in his gifts in the flower of youth. And then, again, she might develop into a—well, comparisons are odious, they say, and we will make none in this instance, content to let time do his best or his worst, as fate decrees.”