"Mother, my friend, Miss March."
Mrs. Arnold came forward on the rose-embroidered veranda. An old look crept into her face. Her brow darkened. Her heart froze. But love conquered jealousy, and for Harry's sake she took both hands of the young woman whom she knew he loved, and smiled.
"And Mr. Tristram March."
"Welcome to Hillsborough. Will you not come inside?"
"Let's sit on the veranda," said Harry, throwing himself on a seat. "It's cooler here."
The others became seated and submitted their foreheads to the cool caresses of the breeze.
"I enjoy your road from the station so much, Mrs. Arnold. It winds like a river all the way," said Tristram March.
"A narrow river, I fear, and rough in parts," answered the lady.
"Do you know I like a soft country road. It seems padded for the horse's hoofs," said Miss March.
"Rosalie is a philanthropist, you know. She is vice-president—one of the vice-presidents—I believe there are nineteen—of the ladies' league for the abolition of race dissension in the south by the universal whitewashing of negroes."