Throckmorton took Judith’s hand in his. She made no resistance this time—that quick inner sense told her instinctively that there was something comforting to him in her gentle and womanly clasp. He looked at her with a somber expression on his face that gradually lightened.
“Do you think she will ever be different?”
“Yes,” cried Judith, gayly. “How perfectly ignorant you are of love! I declare you are worse than Jacqueline. It’s the greatest reformer in the world—the most cunning teacher as well. It will teach Jacqueline all she ought to know; but it can’t do it at once.”
“But does she love me?” asked Throckmorton, smiling a little.
“How could she help it?” answered Judith, turning her head archly, and implying that Throckmorton considered himself a lady-killer—which made him laugh, and sent him off home in a little better humor with the world and himself.
Meanwhile, back in the drawing-room, Jacqueline was having a conversation with Simon Peter, who was raking down the fire for the night. General and Mrs. Temple had left the room. Usually Jacqueline slipped off to bed an hour before they did; but to-night she lingered, standing over the fire with one little foot on the brass fender.
“How does it look to-night, Uncle Simon?” she asked, meaning how did the sky look, and what were the chances for good weather.
“Hit looks mighty cu’rus to me, Miss Jacky,” answered Simon Peter, in a queer sort of a voice that made Jacqueline stare at him. “I seed two tuckey-buzzards flyin’ ober de house tog’er’r—and dat’s a sign—”
“A sign of what?”
“A sign ’tain’ gwi’ be no weddin’ at Barn Elms dis year.”