“Well, of course I shall tell him whenever I see him,” returned the youth, somewhat softened; “and I’m aware he has a sort of sneaking fondness for me; but I’m not going to ask his advice, because he knows nothing about the business. Besides, mother, I am old enough to judge for myself, and mean to take the advice of nobody.”
“You are indeed old enough to judge for yourself,” said Mrs Leather, resuming her knitting, “and I don’t wish to turn you from your plans. On the contrary, I will pray that God’s blessing and protection may accompany you wherever you go, but you should not expect me to be instantaneously jubilant over an arrangement which will take you away from me, for years perhaps.”
This last consideration seemed to have some weight with the selfish youth.
“Well, well, mother,” he said, rising, “don’t take on about that. Travelling is not like what it used to be. A trip over the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains is nothing to speak of now—a mere matter of a few weeks—so that a fellow can take a run home at any time to say ‘How do’ to his people. I’m going down now to see Smithers and tell him the news.”
“Stay, I’ll go with you—a bit of the way,” cried May, jumping up and shaking back the curly brown hair which still hung in native freedom—and girlish fashion—on her shoulders.
May had a charming and rare capacity for getting ready to go out at a moment’s notice. She merely threw on a coquettish straw hat, which had a knack of being always at hand, and which clung to her pretty head with a tenacity that rendered strings or elastic superfluous. One of her brother’s companions—we don’t know which—was once heard to say with fervour that no hat would be worth its ribbons that didn’t cling powerfully to such a head without assistance! A shawl too, or cloak, was always at hand, somehow, and had this not been so May would have thrown over her shoulders an antimacassar or table-cloth rather than cause delay,—at least we think so, though we have no absolute authority for making the statement.
“Dear Shank,” she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, “is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with—with Mr Ritson to California?”
“Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph’s name was mentioned? There, you’re flushing again! Are you in love with him?”
“No, certainly not,” answered the girl, with an air and tone of decision that made her brother laugh.
“Well, you needn’t flare up so fiercely. You might be in love with a worse man. But why, then, do you blush?”