"His heart."
Mistress Vawse nodded. The glove dropped from Deborah's hand, and Father St. Quentin suddenly appeared at the door.
"The coach is coming, Deborah. Have you told Mistress Vawse of the cherries yet?"
"Oh no! I will as we go down."
"And how's the Frenchman, sir?"
The father smiled. "Luck is against my practice of French for the day, I fear. I must come to-morrow. It may be Mistress Deborah's medicine. He is sleeping like a child."
CHAPTER III
The Plantation
It was nearly four weeks since the Baltimore had set sail on her return voyage to England. The June days were flying. Peach-blossoms had long since fallen; cherries were daily reddening; and the turkeys had been turned into the tobacco fields for their annual feast off the insect life so destroying to young plants. In nine days more the commissioners from Annapolis were to make their departure for Lancaster in Pennsylvania, for the purpose of settling the long-delayed matter of purchasing charter rights from the Indians. It was, moreover, a Monday afternoon, and very warm, when Virginia Trevor came languidly up from the rose-garden towards the wide and shady portico of the house. In her hand she held two magnificent red roses, which she now and then raised to her face, they being in perfect contrast to her white gown and petticoat of palest yellow.
The portico was furnished in the fashion of a room, for in summer the family were inclined to spend more time there than in the house. Upon it now, in one of the comfortable chairs that surrounded a wicker table, sat the solitary occupant of the portico—Sir Charles. He had been here for an hour or so, ever since dinner was over, half awake, bored, wishing for amusement, but without energy to go in search of it. On Virginia's approach he rose, bowed, and went to the edge of the porch to hand her up.