Vesper glanced sharply at her, then poured the last few drops of his tea on the ground.
"Ah," said Mrs. Rose, anxiously, "I feared that I had not put in enough salt. Now I know."
"It was perfect," said Vesper. "I am only offering a libation to those pansies," and he inclined his dark head towards Narcisse, who was seated cross-legged in the hammock.
Rose took the cup, smiled innocently and angelically on her child and the young man and his mother, and returned to the house.
Agapit presently came hurrying by the fence. "Ah, that is good!" he exclaimed, when he saw Vesper sauntering to and fro; "do you not think you could essay a walk to the wharf?"
"Yes," said Vesper, while his mother anxiously looked up from her work.
"Then come,—let me have the honor of escorting you," and Agapit showed his big white teeth in an ecstatic smile.
Vesper extended a hand to Narcisse, and, lifting his cap to his mother, went slowly down the lane to the road.
Agapit could scarcely contain his delight. He grinned broadly at every one they met, tried to accommodate his pace to Vesper's, kept forgetting and striding ahead, and finally, cramming his hands in his pockets, fell behind and muttered, "I feel as if I had known you a hundred years."
"You didn't feel that way six weeks ago," said Vesper, good-humoredly.