“And I do not, grandma,” he returned, with warmth; “you would not be half so dear and lovable as you are.”
“My dear boy, how can you say it?” she asked, in mild surprise.
“Grandma, doesn’t the Bible say it is not he that commendeth himself who is approved, but whom the Lord commendeth? And why does that woman put on such airs of condescension toward you? She is not your superior in any respect; no, nor half your equal in very many.”
CHAPTER V.
A little crowd, mostly men, were gathered about the depot door to watch the arrival of the westward-bound evening train. A few yards farther from the track, Miriam Heath, seated in a buggy, had reined in her horse and was quietly waiting. At the first sound of the whistle, instantly followed by the rush and roar of the train, the animal started aside, snorting, and rolling his eyes wildly.
“Shall I take his head, miss?” asked a voice in a rich Irish brogue, and Phelim O’Rourke, hurrying from Bangs’s stable to join the waiting throng, sprang hastily forward and seized the bridle-rein.
“No; I can hold him; he will be quiet enough as soon as he sees what it is,” Miriam answered shortly, not overpleased at the officiousness of the man.
He stepped away a few paces and regarded her with a malignant scowl.
Her words were made good almost before they had left her lips. The train swept into sight, and her horse stood quiet as a lamb, while the engine puffed, snorted, and blew off steam, and the passengers poured out and scattered themselves hither and thither.