“The fact is I sent over to New Leyden for my team yesterday. I didn’t know how things might turn out, and you’re so far from a lemon here, that I thought I might be useful in going errands.”
Grace turned her head and glanced at the equipage. “Is that your team?”
“Yes,” said the young fellow, with a smile of suppressed pride.
“What an exquisite creature!” said the girl.
“Isn’t she?” They both faced about, and stood looking at the mare, and the light, shining, open buggy behind her. The sunshine had the after-storm glister; the air was brisk, and the breeze blew balm from the heart of the pine forest. “Miss Breen,” he broke out, “I wish you’d take a little dash through the woods with me. I’ve got a broad-track buggy, that’s just right for these roads. I don’t suppose it’s the thing at all to ask you, on such short acquaintance, but I wish you would. I know you’d enjoy it: Come?”
His joyous urgence gave her a strange thrill. She had long ceased to imagine herself the possible subject of what young ladies call attentions, and she did not think of herself in that way now. There was something in the frank, eager boyishness of the invitation that fascinated her, and the sunny face turned so hopefully upon her had its amusing eloquence. She looked about the place with an anxiety of which she was immediately ashamed: all the ladies were out of sight, and probably at the foot of the cliff.
“Don’t say no, Miss Breen,” pleaded the gay voice.
The answer seemed to come of itself. “Oh, thank you, yes, I should like to go.”
“Good!” he exclaimed, and the word which riveted her consent made her recoil.
“But not this morning. Some other day. I—I—I want to think about Mrs. Maynard. I—oughtn’t to leave her. Excuse me this morning, Mr. Libby.”