"Yachts aren't very solid things," retorted the latter calmly; "and Europe's a long piece away. And if my views on love aren't what they ought to be, blame Agnes there," as he looked in unevasive tenderness towards his wife.
I caught the look she cast back at him; it made me think of the lonely bridge. I glanced, too, at the bloom-laden magnolia—and the thought flashed through my mind that an old raft, as uncle said, might be made heavenly enough.
"When is Mr. Giddens going to call again?" my mother suddenly enquired. "I heard him say he was going home on Monday."
"He's coming now," Aunt Agnes announced in a low voice; "yonder, look—he's just coming past the Hickey's boat-house," her keen eye studying the distant figure. "And who's that with him?" she exclaimed a moment later; "why, it's Mr. Furvell, sure as the world. I reckon he's coming here too—some news about the elder, likely enough. I didn't know he and Mr. Giddens were acquainted."
"Neither they are," said my mother. "I reckon they just happened in with each other."
"Shouldn't wonder if the dominie's shadowin' him," uncle ventured gravely; "lookin' for a job, you see—this'll be worth two hundred to him at the least, won't it, Helen?" as he looked quizzingly at me.
"At the very least," I answered; "I'm pretty expensive—as well as dear," which little playfulness seemed to tickle uncle immensely. He was proceeding to expound the humour to the others when mother interrupted.
"Run to the door and meet them, Helen. And bring them right out to the porch."
"I'd rather not," I demurred—"I'm shy." But the knocker had already sounded and Lyddie had already started for the door. Uncle Henry immediately arose and made his way to meet our friends. A minute later we were all mingled in a kind of hand-shaking reel on the piazza.
"Mr. Giddens and I met at the wharf," explained Mr. Furvell; "we were both taking a look at our noble river—it's superb in the morning sunshine. So we walked up together."