“I do spy somethin' white on yonder ground where you was when I came up. Maybe it's a pocket-handkerchief, may be it's the flowers you dropped.”
The former sprang down and returned with two articles one of which—the bouquet he gave to Mr. Joseph, the other, a small bottle—he put in his own pocket The bouquet was as fresh and untumbled as when it emerged from the careful florist who had prepared it. Not a single drop of the fiery liquid had fallen upon it nor scorched its fragrant beauty and it presently lay upon the face of the suffering man, healing with its cool moist sweet leaves and petals his poor scarred skin.
“I won't ask him,” thought the farmer, “I won't ask him. But what are they doin' here together? Well, I won't ask that neither. And why did not she came out by the stage as she said? I won't ask that neither. There's three things I needn't go for to enquire into. But a little general conversation in a nice kind of way, neither spyin' nor lyin' may do him good and not be altogether despised by the—the other party.” He looked back and could dimly see Mr. Joseph sitting up on the blanket. He had removed his hat, and his hands were pressed to his head. Charlotte Dexter was in the furthest corner of the waggon, a dark, stern, ominous figure.
“Strange that you and me are goin' home together, Miss Dexter, after all,” said the farmer.
“Miss Dexter drove in to the Albion alongside of me yesterday, sir, and I ask her if so be she need a second lift back to-day, and she said 'no.'”
“Ah!” said Mr. Joseph. “Yesterday, did you say? I was—to have—come out—yesterday—in answer to my brother's note—but I could not manage—it. I wish,” with a grim attempt at the old humor—“I had, 'pon my soul I do.”
“Your brother is well, I hope, sir?” said the farmer. “Don't talk too much, I beg of ye, Mr. Joseph. To see ye with yer hands like that!”
“It is—better—easier—that way,” returned Mr. Joseph. “My brother is well for him, thank you. You know, he is—not strong he—is—never—perfectly well.”
“D—” said the farmer to himself. “Of course, of course, I know. I see him yesterday morning, pale like and weak, but smiling and lookin' happy enough too, I tell ye.”
“Ah, yes” said Mr. Joseph, again lying down and pressing the flowers to his hot lips. “I—these flowers—are for him and—her.”