“See here, Emily,” said Mr Snow, coming in an hour or two later, “if Mr Millar thinks of catching the cars for Boston, this evening, you’ll have to hurry up your tea.”
“But he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing,” said Mrs Snow. “Dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for Boston.”
“Why no, mother, I ain’t. He spoke about it this morning, himself, or I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t. I’ll be glad to have him stay, and more than glad.”
“He is going to stay and hear the minister preach,” said Graeme. “You know you asked him, and I’m sure he will enjoy it.”
“He is a good preacher,” said Mr Snow, gravely.
“And he’s a good practiser, which is far better,” said his wife. “But I doubt, deacon, you’ll need to put him out of your head now. Look down yonder, and tell me if you think Rosie is likely to bide in Merleville.”
And the deacon, looking, saw Mr Millar and Rose coming slowly up the path together, and a duller man than Mr Snow could hardly have failed to see how matters stood between them. Mr Millar was looking down on the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, as for Rose, Mr Snow had never seen her look at all as she was looking at that moment.
“Well,” said his wife, softly.
“Well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see,” said Mr Snow. He nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned his eyes on Graeme.
His wife smiled.