His regretful thoughts were reflected on his countenance, and his companion gayly insisted on an explanation of his gloomy and disconsolate appearance.
"I was thinking of my little sister," was the serious, almost gloomy reply. "You musn't blame her too much, Paul, if she appears rude and romping. I left her wholly unformed; her greatest delights being to climb the highest trees where she used to sit like a little monkey, swaying about among the blanches; the air filled with her shouts of mirth at my alarm."
"She must have a curious governess," remarked Paul, dryly.
"Good old Hannah has never been dignified with that title. She is manager general of the farm, house and grounds and can't be expected to have much time to devote to Gerty's education, even if she were competent to direct it."
He was silent for a few minutes when he added earnestly, "Excuse myself as I may, by my absence from home, I feel keenly that I have not done my duty toward my sister. I remember now how disappointed she was when I wrote that I should not be at home all last summer. Well, it's too late to help that; and I shall be near enough to Rose Cottage to return there every Saturday night; and next winter I will have her attend one of the best schools in New York."
Paul smiled at the idea of his fastidious chum escorting through the streets a little, wild Gypsy, in short clothes; her cheeks as brown as a nut, and her black hair flying in every direction.
Hurrying through New York they took passage in a North River boat which would land them within a mile of their destination. Nearly half the passage had been accomplished, when a gentleman who had for some minutes been promenading the deck came toward them and offering his hand to Edward exclaimed eagerly:
"I think I cannot be mistaken. You are young Wallingford, son of my old friend."
"Yes, and you are Mr. Winslow. I am more than glad to meet you."
The gentleman then turned to Paul and offered his hand, saying: