Adoniram Fisher.”
They were off the next morning, Grandpapa and Phronsie, hurrying down to New York to sail on the following day. Joel, informed of it by telegram, got a brother minister to take his place for a fortnight or so, and determined to go too. And hardly before Polly and the rest of the home people at “The Oaks” had accustomed themselves to think of it as a settled thing surely to be, the little party were off on the waste of waters, that lengthened every day into a terrible distance between them and their dear home. But they were going to Mamsie and to Roslyn! And although Mr. King was dreadfully overcome at the thought of what might meet them at the end of the journey, as a result (he now felt quite sure) of his meddling with Phronsie’s happiness, he kept up pluckily on her account, and never let a sign of his inward trepidation be seen.
“Oh, how do you do”—Joel was saying very carelessly, as Phronsie came up to him on deck, to a very elegant-looking person, who extended two fingers to her—“Mr. Bayley, Mr. Livingston Bayley, you remember, Phronsie.”
“And Mrs. Livingston Bayley,” said that gentleman, as the young girl bowed, presenting a handsome, showily dressed person, who eyed Phronsie all over. “Well, ’pon me honor, this is not half bad, don’t you know, to meet in this way.”
Phronsie, not knowing exactly what to reply, left it to Joel, who didn’t care to, but stood gazing blankly out to sea.
“We have only been in America a week,” said the lady in a sweet little drawl, “and I made Mr. Bayley bring me directly to London again. I absolutely could not exist unless he did.”
“A beastly boat, ain’t it now?” said Mr. Bayley with a yawn.
“Haven’t tried it yet enough to say,” replied Joel with a short laugh.
“How are all your family?” asked Mr. Bayley a trifle awkwardly, which so disconcerted him that he paused mid-air for another idea.
“All very well, thank you,” said Joel.