Miss Essie's laugh rang out again and her eyes danced.
"That rascal! Now for shame, Mr. Stoutenburgh! You know better. I wonder if you never had young horses yourself, and took Mrs. Stoutenburgh to ride, too. Now I like him very much. Mr. Linden, you know Dr. Harrison, don't you?"
"I should—a little."
"Well aren't you a judge of character? Do you think he deserves to be called a rascal?"
But Squire Stoutenburgh prevented the answer. "I wish you'd just stop and let me catch up with you, Miss Essie," he said. "Now before we go any further, whoever said he was a rascal?—I didn't."
"Did you mean somebody else, Mr. Stoutenburgh?"
"That's the way you talk over pleasant things!" said the Squire. "If I hadn't hallooed after you, Miss Essie, I should have had a challenge from the doctor before morning—or a shot,—that's getting to be the fashion."
"Do you think Dr. Harrison is that kind of man?" said Miss Essie. "Mr. Linden, what kind of man do you think he is? You can tell better than the Squire, and I want to know."
"Miss Essie!—he is my friend and I am his,—you cannot expect me to give you Dr. Harrison's components—'each with its Latin label on'!"
"Not at all! but in general, how would you characterize him, if asked what sort of a man he was!"