"Oh, indeed I do. Dear Miss Jerusha, and dear little Emily, and——"
"Dear little Betsey Periwinkle," interposed Richmond.
"Yes; just so," said Georgia, resolutely; "a really good friend of mine was Betsey, and very intimate we were. Yes, I want to see them all; when will you take me there, Richmond?"
"In one week from this, Georgia; I cannot get away before; and then, with your brother, we will make a pilgrimage to Burnfield, and you can look once more at the 'auld hoose at hame.' You will have to go down on your knees and intercede for me with Miss Jerusha, or she will never forgive me for the way I behaved to her darling."
"Oh, how I long to go back there again! Now that the time is near, I feel twice as impatient as I did before. A whole week! I wonder if it will ever pass."
But it did pass, and another, too, and busy weeks they were with the governor and his lady. The nine days' wonder of her appearance had scarcely yet passed away when Mr. and Mrs. Wildair and Mr. Randall left B——, en route for the little "one-horse" town of Burnfield.
A fairer day never came out of the sky than the one that heralded Georgia's return to Burnfield—dear old Burnfield! fairer in her eyes than Florence, the beautiful, brighter than Rome, the imperial, for her home was there. Nothing was changed. There stood Richmond House, the pride and boast of the town still, there was the pleasant home of Emily Murray, there was the old school-house where her stormy girlhood had been spent.
As she gazed, she lay back amid the cushions of the carriage and put her hand before her face, that they might not see how deeply she was moved. Her brother looked out with mingled interest and curiosity, and with a dim recollection of the few wretched days and nights he had passed here. Richmond looked on the familiar objects with mingled gladness and remorse, and recollected, with many strange emotions, that the last time he had entered Burnfield it had been with his bride, as they returned from their brief city tour. Only two years since then, and what changes had taken place! Mr. Dick Curtis, who had insisted on making one of their party, and positively refused to take no for an answer, was of them all the only one perfectly unmoved, and sat looking at the familiar landmarks as they drove past, with a face of grave approval.
"Fine place, sir—fine place," said Mr. Curtis, with a wave of his hand; "considerable of a town is Burnfield, eh, Randall? Not equal to Paris, you know, or Lapland, or the great St. Bernard, or any of the other tremendous cities, but a pretty tall place considering, and a real, genuine Yankee town. And then the produce—I defy the world to raise such girls, and boys, and pumpkins as they do in Burnfield. I defy 'em to do it, sir! Look at that young lady there, in the pink sun-bonnet and red cheeks, round as a cask of lager beer, and sweet as a cart-load of summer cherries—there's a specimen of American ingenuity for you! Could they surpass that in Constantinople or the city of Dublin, or any other distant or impossible region? No, sir; they couldn't. I defy 'em to do it, sir! Yes, I repeat it," said Mr. Curtis, striking his knee with his hand, and glaring round ferociously at the company generally, "I defy 'em to do it, sir."
Mr. Curtis was as fierce as an African lion, so everybody immediately settled down and looked serious.