The Professor's eyes swept mutely over the valley and hills, and the girl watched him jealously.
"You love it more than New England," she said, with a touch of bitterness.
"Differently!" exclaimed the poor Professor; "differently!"
"You love it more," persisted the New England girl.
The Professor drew a long breath. "Can I help it? One is affection—fondness; the other—" He stopped abruptly.
Her lips were closed tightly.
"Oh, you will suffer intolerable homesickness—you are homesick now. And then it is all of no use—Everard, you must stay; you must think better of it. Stay and take that Chair! There cannot be any business so pressing. It will be no use—not the slightest use for you to go."
In her earnestness she put her hand on his, but instantly withdrew it. Her troubled eyes looked straight into his, and the Professor's looked straightly back. But he shook his head, and suddenly she looked away.
"And you?"
"Oh, I," she answered, lightly; "I am a thorough-going dyed-in-the-wool New-Englander. I was brought up to go to church on Sunday and clean house twice a year, and have a proper respect for calling cards. I shall go on and join aunty at Santa Barbara, and get home in time for all my clubs and classes. Besides, I have been meaning to tell you, I am going to take a year in the College Settlement."