In the midst of Letitia's sad uprooting of her old garden, as she called the only home she had ever known, a letter came from the yellow waistcoat conveying surprising news. Dove herself was leaving for Grassy Ford to persuade her cousin to return with her and dwell henceforth with the McLeans. A thrill ran through our little household at the thought of that approaching maid of dreams. Now we should know, the mater said, that the girl was dovelike. "Humpf!" was my father's comment. Letitia trembled, she said, with a return of her childish awe of the yellow waistcoat. I myself was stirred—I was still in teens, and dreaded girls I had never met.
On the July morning that was to bring her, I rose early, I remember, and took down my fishing-rod.
"Not a bad idea, either," remarked my father, as he stood watching me. "Still," he added, "there's no hurry, Bertram. She'll want to change her dress first, you know."
I made no answer.
"It's a bit selfish though," he continued, "to be carrying her off this way the very first morning."
"Mother," I said, coolly, "will you put up some sandwiches? I may not be back till dark."
"Why, Bertram! Going fishing on the day—"
"I don't really see what that's got to do with it," I interrupted. "Must I give up all my fun because a mere girl's coming?"
"No, Bertram," said my father, in his kindest tones. "Go, by all means, and here [he was rummaging in the bookcase drawer]—here, my son, take these along, these old field-glasses. They may come handy. You can see our yard, you know, from the top of Sun Dial—and the front porch. Splendid fishing up on Sun Dial—"
But I was off.