“Pardy—I mean papa—insists that vagueness of language always means mistiness of thinking.”
“I hardly go that far. There are many explanations of the vague in statement. A man may think with decisive sharpness of result, and be quite unable to word his conclusions. But we are in deep waters.”
“Quite too deep. As to quotations, I like to think with Aunt Anne that they are all in the dictionary, and so cease to bother myself with the source.”
“Assuredly that saves trouble. Ah, here is the river,” he said. “Am I not to have a rose?”
“Is that a quotation, Mr. Carington?” and she laughed. “That is silly enough for ball-room talk.”
“It has been said pretty often, and at all events is not vague.”
“I am not sure men ought ever to have roses,” she cried, gaily; “but, as I am not sure, here is one. I will not act on my vagueness.”
“Thank you.” He held it a moment, and then quietly dropped it into the pocket of his jacket, not unperceived by Rose.
“Ah, here is my boat,” she said; “good-by.” As they stood on the bank, she looked hastily over at the cabin and saw no one in sight. Then she stepped into the canoe, where Polycarp sat in tranquil patience, and the young man, lifting his cap, walked away into the woods.
Gay comrade thoughts and fancies went with him on the way, and, light of heart, he guided himself by the yellow lanes of sunshine which lit the open forest before him. Soon he found the lower road, and, still smiling, moved on more slowly, and took to building castles on those great estates in Spain to which he had just fallen heir.