“Is he well?” she asked, turning to Boston, who was engaged in a flirtation with Katrine.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. You see he is out of spirits on your account, and that runs him down some. But he is hearty. Just send him a cheery word, and all will be well in the twinkling of an eye.”
“I am going to my room now, and shall write an answer to this. You must remain until I come back. I shall not be long.”
She hurried away quickly, leaving Boston with Katrine—and they sat down by the casement. They quarreled, and “made up” again, several times, before Theresa appeared with an answer to the note.
“I have a little to say to you. Your father took me to-day, and made me confess that I had a message to you.”
“Oh dear! You did not show him that letter?”
“Not a bit of it. But I told him that the message was verbal, and gave him one of my own making up. Sounded natural enough. Faithful unto death, and that sort of stuff. You understand.”
“And did not Willie send any such message to me?”
“A thousand; but I couldn’t think of half he said, if I were to spend a week in meditation on the subject. You will take them all for granted.”
“I fancy that Willie had better change his messenger,” said Theresa, with a pout. “I am sure he might do better.”