Garde and Prudence both took up some knitting and began to ply the needles, over which their eyes were bent, intently.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Soam, encouragingly. “Is he a Puritan?”
“I don’t know,” said Wainsworth, frankly. “I think perhaps he is. At any rate, he belongs here, I feel sure. But wherever he belongs, or whatever he is, he’s a splendid fellow. I was riding to hounds when we met. My horse threw me, and my foot was caught in the stirrup. I was being dragged when Rust stopped my run-away horse. He is one of the most superb horsemen I ever knew.”
“Why, do you mean that he saved your life?” inquired Goodwife Soam. “It must have been a terrible moment.”
“I haven’t much brains, but I was about to lose what I had,” said Wainsworth, generously. “He came in the nick of time. And afterwards, when I happened to be a bit short of funds—as a man will, you know, sometimes—why, he loaned me nearly every penny he had in the world!”
“Was that not most improvident?” said the listener.
“Yes, I suppose it was. You know, you wouldn’t call him exactly provident. He is too good-hearted a fellow to be that, you know. He is one of those fellows you can tell anything about yourself. I tell him everything.”
He looked up at Garde, as he said this, wishing he could tell her the half that he had confided to Rust. She never lifted her eyes, however, from her knitting.
“And what did he tell you of your mother?” asked Mrs. Soam.
“Oh, nothing. He never knew the mater.” Henry tried to think what Adam had told him. “He just—well, told me of a few general matters.”