"All he wants is a word. You heard your cousin say he was disinherited under the will."
"Yes, that is—why, of course, I knew it. He told me at the jail that day."
"Then I will write to Mr. McCausland that your testimony covers that point——"
"No, but mother——"
Rosalie March re-entered at this moment. Her first glance was toward Harry and his toward her. Their thoughts had been traveling the same route and meeting half-way all during the talk on the veranda, when Harry was so unwontedly silent. Alas, he knew well that he was unfit even to look at her.
In their outward demeanor to each other he was embarrassed and she reserved. The religious difference seemed likely to be permanent. For Rosalie was a Catholic, the daughter of an eminent Maryland family, as historic and proud as the Brewsters and more wealthy than even the Arnolds. But this barrier between them only acted with the charm of a material fence over which or through which a rustic couple are plighting forbidden troth.
"All ready to win my wager," cried Tristram, following his sister in. He, also, had changed his attire, and looked very handsome in his curling Vandyke beard of the cut which artists affect.
"What wager is that?" asked Mrs. Arnold.
"We passed the river coming down, and I offered to canoe the rapids."
"And the river so low, Harry. It is rash."