Chapter XIV
A Fellow of Harvard
His book lay open between his elbows, and his chin was propped on his hands. His cap lay on the grass near by.
Abigail’s shyness tempted her to hurry by him without attracting attention, but when she remembered that he might know something of the fine gentleman she was seeking, she paused bravely.
“It will be a fair day, sir,” she said in a quavering voice.
The young man rolled over on his elbow. He wore no wig, and his lank dark hair, parted in the centre, fell on either side of his long, colourless face. His eyes were sharp and bright.
“On what authority dare you make so rash a statement?” inquired he, sternly. “Take heed how you say such things, lest it rain and thunder and the wind blow, and a hurricane come upon us this afternoon, and you be prosecuted for telling a falsehood.”
Abigail failed to perceive he was but jesting, and this, as well as timidity and anxiety, so wrought upon her, that without further ado she began to cry.
At this the student jumped up, deeply repentant, and entreated her to rest in the shade of the old elm tree by him. He gave her his kerchief to dry her eyes, and offered an apple from his pocket.
“There, there,” he said, “’twas but an idle jest. I am a bit of a merry-andrew in my way, but a harmless fellow, without a grain of malice in me. Sure the sun will shine all day when the morn is fair like this. Look up, my pretty lass. See, it still shines.”
Abigail obediently blinked her tear-wet lashes at the dazzling sun, then turned her attention to the apple. She ate it with great relish, the while the student leant back against the tree, his hands in his pockets and his long legs crossed. Thus leisurely reclining, he sang a song for her pleasure, such as never before had greeted her staid, religious little ears. His voice was wondrous mellow, and its cadences flung over her a charmed spell.