“No, I’m not, mother dear,” the girl answered with a forced laugh.
Sarah Gurridge patted her late pupil’s shoulder affectionately. But her head shook gravely as though a weight of worldly wisdom was hers.
“I don’t think he’ll stay away,” said the mother, with a tender glance in the girl’s direction.
“He hasn’t chin enough,” said Sarah, who prided herself upon her understanding of physiognomy.
“Indeed he has,” retorted Prudence, who heard the remark.
Mrs. Malling was right, Leslie Grey was not going to stay away. He had no intention of doing so. But his reasons were quite apart from those Hephzibah Malling attributed to him. He wished to see George Iredale, and because of the man’s coming Grey would forego his angry desire to retaliate upon Prudence. He quite ignored what he was pleased to call his own pride in the matter. He would come because he had what he considered excellent reasons for so doing.
Prudence lit the lamps and laid the table for tea. Her mother ambled off to the great kitchen as fast as her bulk would allow her. There were many things in that wonderful place to see to for the supper, and on these occasions Mrs. Malling would not trust their supervision even to Prudence, much less to the hired girl, Mary. Sarah Gurridge remained in her seat by the stove watching the glowing coals dreamily, her mind galloping ahead through fanciful scenes of her own imagination. Had she been asked she would probably have stated that she was looking forward into the future of the pair who were so soon to be married.
Prudence went on quietly and nimbly with her work. Presently Sarah turned, and after a moment’s intent gaze at the trim, rounded figure, said in her profoundest tone––
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“‘Harvest your wheat ere the August frost; One breath of cold and the crop is lost.’” |