“And what is your motto, Miss Howard?”
“I don’t think Margaret has any,” said Mrs. Howard, answering for her daughter. “She is like her father. She reads a great deal and doesn’t talk much. He would read all the time, if he did not have to work. I see Margaret has already invited you, for she has put an extra plate on the table.”
“Ah, then,” said Yates, “I shall have much pleasure in accepting both the verbal and the crockery invitation. I am sorry for the professor at his lonely meal by the tent; for he is a martyr to duty, and I feel sure Mrs. Bartlett will not be able to keep him.”
Before Mrs. Howard could reply there floated in to them, from the outside, where Margaret was, a cheery voice which Yates had no difficulty in recognizing as belonging to Miss Kitty Bartlett.
“Hello, Margaret!” she said. “Is he here?”
The reply was inaudible.
“Oh, you know whom I mean. That conceited city fellow.”
There was evidently an admonition and a warning.
“Well, I don’t care if he does. I’ll tell him so to his face. It might do him good.”
Next moment there appeared a pretty vision in the doorway. On the fair curls, which were flying about her shoulders, had been carelessly placed her brother’s straw hat, with a broad and torn brim. Her face was flushed with running; and of the fact that she was a very lovely girl there was not the slightest doubt.