"Don't talk to me about the curiosity of women," said Linda coming upon Miss Ri after her return walk. "The new importation at Miss Parthy's is certainly the most inquisitive person it has ever been my lot to meet. I was prepared to like him from what Bertie told me, but I never met a man who could ask such personal questions upon such short acquaintance."
"Why, Linda, I never thought he could be called exactly rude. Perhaps he doesn't pay one those little courteous attentions that we are used to down here, though he is polite enough as I remember. Parthy and I have wondered whether he could be an adventurer, or whether he were a visionary sort of person or what, but we have come to the conclusion that he is neither."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised if he were an adventurer and that he has come down here to hunt up some unsuspecting damsel with property of her own whom he could beguile into marrying him."
"Why, my child, did he ask you to marry him?"
"Oh, dear no, I hope not, since my first real conversationwith him has just taken place, but he wanted to know all about Talbot's Angles, how much land there was and all that, and he wound up by inquiring if it belonged to me."
"That does look somewhat suspicious, though it does not show much tact, if his object is really what you surmise. A real adventurer would make his inquiries of someone else. I wouldn't judge him too severely. He says he is looking up an old claim, you know, and it may lie near your place. I would wait and see what happens."
"Tell me, Miss Ri, did he bring any sort of credentials with him?"
"Yes, I think so, at least he gave Berk a business card and said he was well known by the insurance company by whom he had been employed in Hartford, and that he had friends there who could vouch for him, and he said he had a number of letters in his trunk."
"Oh, says, says; it's easy enough to say. I don't believe he ever had a trunk, and I believe his story is made out of whole cloth."
"Why, Verlinda, dear, I never knew you so bitter. Do give the lad a chance to prove himself."
"I thought you didn't want me to know him. You know you said you weren't going to have him come when I was at home."
"Oh, well, I didn't mean that exactly; I only wanted to provide against your flying off into asentimental attitude, but now you have gone to the other extreme; I don't want that either. Parthy says there never was a more considerate man, and that he is not any trouble at all. Of course, he hasn't the little thoughtful ways that Berk has; he doesn't always stand with his hat off when he is talking to me in the street, and he doesn't rise to his feet every time I leave my chair, and stand till I am seated. He has allowed my handkerchief to lie till I chose to pick it up myself, and doesn't always spring to open the door for me; in those things he differs from Berk, but he is certainly quiet and dignified. There comes Berk now, Verlinda; I knew he'd be along about supper time."
Berkley's broad shoulders were seen over the rows of chrysanthemums and scarlet salvia as he took a leisurely passage up the gravelled walk. He waved a hand in greeting. "I knew I wasn't too late because I saw you both from the street."
"And of course you hurried before that?" questioned Miss Ri.
"Yes, I always make it a point to hurry if there is a chance of being late to supper, but I never hurry when there is no need to. I don't wish to squander my vital energies, you see. What's for supper, Miss Ri?"
"You haven't been invited to take it with us, yet."
"I don't have to be. Once, many a year ago, you said, 'Berk, drop in whenever you feel like it,' andI have piously enshrined that saying upon the tablets of my memory. Once invited, always invited, you see, so I repeat my anxious query: what's for supper?"
"I am sure I don't know. Linda did the ordering this morning for I wasn't here."
"Tell me, Linda." Berkley had dropped formalities since the evening of song.
Linda shook her head. "As if I could be expected to remember things that occurred this morning before breakfast; so many things have happened since then."
"Things have happened in this blessed sleepy old place? That is news. I didn't know anything could happen in Sandbridge."
"Oh, they might not be important to you, but they are to me."
"Then, of course, they are important to me."
"A very nice speech, sir. Well, in the first place, Miss Ri has returned, as you see. Then Grace and Lauretta were here and have just departed for the city."
"For good?"
"Let us hope it is for good only," put in Miss Ri.
"Sh! Sh!" warned Linda. "That wasn't pretty, Miss Ri. Then I have been talking over the fence to your friend, Mr. Jeffreys, and he has aroused my antagonism to a degree."
"He has?" Berkley looked surprised. "I don't see why or how he could do that."
"Wait till she tells you, Berk," Miss Ri spoke up. "I am going in to tell Phebe to set another place at table. If I am to have guests thrust upon me whether I invite them or not, I must be decent enough to see that they have plates to eat from." She left the two to saunter on to the house while she entered the path which led to the kitchen.
Linda recounted her tale to which Berk listened attentively. "What do you think of a man who would put such questions to a perfect stranger?" queried Linda.
Berkley knit his brows. "Looks like one of two things; either unqualified curiosity or a deeper purpose, that of finding out all about the farm on account of personal interest in it."
"But what nonsense. You don't mean he thinksthat'sthe place to which he lays claim? Why, we've held the grant for hundreds of years."
"We don't know what he thinks; I am not saying what are the facts; I am only trying to account for his interest."
"Miss Ri thought he might be interested because his claim may perhaps touch our property somewhere, and that there may be some question of the dividing line."
"That could very well be. At all events, I don't believe it was idle curiosity. I'll sound him a littleif I can, but he is a reticent sort of fellow, and as dumb as an oyster about that matter, though there is really no use in his talking till he gets his papers, which, poor fellow, it's mighty unlikely he'll ever find."
"I'd hate a prying neighbor," remarked Linda.
"You're not liable to have one from present indications. If I had time I'd really like to look into some of the old titles, and see just how the property in the vicinity of Talbot's Angles has come down to the present owners. I know about a good many, as it is. Your brother sold off Talbot's Addition, didn't he?"
"Yes. You know my father had mortgaged it up to the hilt, and then Mart sold it in order to get rid of the interest and to have something to put into the home place. He thought he would rather hold one unencumbered place and have some money to improve it than to struggle along with two places."
"Good judgment, too. If I am not mistaken there was still more property belonging to the Talbot family originally. Wasn't Timber Neck theirs at one time?"
"I believe so, though it was so long ago that I don't remember hearing much about it."
"I see. Well, here we are, and I think there must be crab cakes from the odor."
"So there are; I remember now. I knew MissRi was fond of them and no one can make them as well as Phebe."
The supper set forth on the big round table displayed the crab cakes, brown and toothsome, the inevitable beaten biscuits on one side, and what Phebe called "a pone of bread" on the other. There were, too, some thin slices of cold ham, fried potatoes and a salad, while the side table held some delectable cakes, and a creamy dessert in the preparation of which Phebe was famous. No one had ever been able to get her exact recipe, for "A little pinch" of this, "a sprinkling" of that, and "what I thinks is right" of the other was too indefinite for most housekeepers. Many had, indeed, ventured after hearing the ingredients but all had failed.
"This is a supper fit for a king," said Berkley, sitting down after a satisfied survey of the table.
"You might have just such every day," returned Miss Ri.
"Please to tell me how. Do you mean I could induce Phebe to accept the place of head cook at the hotel?"
"Heaven forbid. No, bat, of course not."
"Why bat?"
"You are so blind, just like most conceited young men who might have homes of their own if they chose."
"Please, Miss Ri, don't be severe. You haven't the right idea at all. Don't you know it is my lackof conceit which prevents my harboring the belief that I could induce anyone to help me to make a home?"
"I don't know anything of the kind. I know it is your selfish love of ease and your desire to shirk responsibility."
"Listen to her, Linda. She will drive me to asking the first girl I meet if she will marry me. You might do it, by the way, and then we might take our revenge by luring Phebe away from her. Of course, Phebe would follow you. I wonder I never thought of that before."
"You are a flippant, senseless trifler," cried Miss Ri with more heat than would appear necessary. "I won't have you talking so of serious subjects."
"So it is a serious subject to your mind?" Berkley laughed gleefully.
But Miss Ri maintained a dignified silence during which Berkley made little asides to Linda till finally Miss Ri said placidly, "I told Linda not long ago that I never got mad with fools, and," she added with a gleam of fun in her eyes, "I'm not going to begin to do it now."
"You have the best of me as usual, Miss Ri," laughed Berkley, "although I might get back at you, if one good turn deserves another. By the way, Linda, did you ever hear the way old Aaron Hopkins interprets that?"
"No, I believe not."
"Someone sent him a barrel of apples last year, and he told me the other day that he expected the same person would send another this year. 'He sent 'em last year,' said the old fellow, 'and you know 'one good turn deserves another.' He is a rare old bird, is Aaron."
"He certainly is," returned Linda. "I think it is too funny that he named his boat theMary haha. He told me he thought thatMinnehahawas a nice name for young folks to use, 'but for an old fellow like me it ain't dignified,' he said."
"Tell Berk what he said to your brother when he came back from college," urged Miss Ri.
"Oh, yes, that was funny, too. You know Mart had been away for three years, and he met old Aaron down by the creek one day. I doubt if Aaron has ever been further than Sandbridge in his life. He greeted Mart like one long lost. 'Well, well,' he said, 'so you've got back. Been away a right smart of a time, haven't you?' 'Three years,' Mart told him. 'Where ye been?' 'To New Jersey.' 'That's right fur, ain't it?' 'Some distance.' 'Beyand Pennsylvany, I reckon. Well, well, how on airth could you stand it?' 'Why, it's a pretty good place, why shouldn't I stand it, Aaron?' said Mart. 'But it's so durned fur from the creek,' replied Aaron."
"Pretty good," cried Berkley. "A true Easternshoreman is Aaron, wants nothing better than his boat and the creek. Good for him."
They lingered at table talking of this and that till presently there came a ring at the door. Phebe lumbered out to open. She was unsurpassed as a cook, but only her extreme politeness excused the awkwardness of her manner as waitress. "It's dat Mr. Jeffs," she said in a stage whisper when she returned. "He ask fo' de ladies."
"Then you will have to come, Linda," said Miss Ri, "and you, too, Berk."
"Of course, I'll come," replied the young man.
"You don't imagine I am going to stay here by myself while you two make eyes at an interloper." And he followed the two to the drawing-room into which Phebe had ushered the visitor.
The young man sitting there arose and came forward, and after shaking hands with Miss Ri he said, "I believe you have not formally presented me to your niece, Miss Hill, though I was so unceremonious as to talk to her over the fence this evening."
"You mean Linda. She is not my niece; I wish she were. How would it do for me to adopt you as one, Verlinda? I'd love to have you call me Aunt Ri."
"Then I'll do it," returned the girl with enthusiasm.
"Then, Mr. Jeffreys, allow me to present you tomy adopted niece, Miss Verlinda Talbot, and beware how you talk to her over the fence. I am a very fierce duenna."
The young man smiled a little deprecatingly, not quite understanding whether this was meant seriously or not, and wondering if he were being censured for his lack of ceremony.
"I presented Mr. Jeffreys quite properly myself," spoke up Berkley. "To be sure, it was in the dark and he wasn't within gun-shot. I haven't recovered from my scare yet, have you, Jeffreys? Next time you go to town, Miss Ri, I am going with you, for I don't mean to be left behind to the tender mercies of anyone as bloodthirsty as Linda."
They all laughed, and the visitor looked at the two young people interestedly. Evidently they were on excellent terms. He wondered if by any chance an engagement existed between them, but when later Bertie Bryan came in, and he saw that Berk treated her with the same air of good comradeship, he concluded that it was simply the informality of old acquaintance, though he wondered a little at it. In his part of the country not even the excuse of lifelong association could set a young man so at his ease with one of the opposite sex, and he was quite sure that he could not play openly at making love to two girls at once. However, they spent a merry time, Linda, under the genial influence of her friends, was livelier than usual, andhowever much she may have resented Mr. Jeffreys' inquisitiveness earlier in the day, on further acquaintance she lost sight of anything but his charm of manner and his art of making himself agreeable.
After the young men had seen Bertie to her home, they walked down the shadowy street together. "Haven't heard anything of those papers yet, I suppose," Berkley said to his companion.
"Nothing at all."
"Too bad. Are you going to give it up?"
"Not quite yet. I thought I'd allow myself six months. I have a bit of an income which comes in regularly, and one doesn't have to spend much in a place like this. Once my papers are found, I think my chances are good." Then abruptly, "You've known Miss Talbot a long time, I suppose, Matthews."
"Nearly all my life. At least we were youngsters together; but I was at college for some years, and I didn't see her between whiles. She was grown up when I came back."
"Then you probably know all about her home, Talbot's Angles, do they call it?"
"Yes, certainly. Everyone about here knows it, for it is one of the few places that has remained in the family since its first occupation." Then suddenly, "Good heavens, man, you don't mean that's the place you are thinking to claim? I can tell you it's not worth your while. The Talbots havethe original land grant and always have had it, and—why, it's an impossibility."
His companion was silent for a moment. "You know, I am not talking yet. If I find the papers are lost irrevocably, I shall go away with only a very pleasant memory of the kindness and hospitality of Sandbridge."
Berkley in turn was silenced, but after parting from his companion at Miss Parthy's door, he went down the street saying to himself, "I'll search that title the very first chance I get. I am as sure as anyone could be that it is all right. Let me see, Miss Ri would know about the forbears; I'll ask her." He stopped under a street lamp and looked at his watch. "It isn't so very late, and she is a regular owl. I'll try it."
Instead of continuing his way to the hotel, he turned the corner which led to Miss Ri's home. Stopping at the gate, he peered in. Yes, there was a light in the sitting-room, and from some unseen window above was reflected a beam upon the surface of the gently-flowing river. "She is up and Linda has gone to her room," he told himself. "Just as I thought."
He stepped quickly inside the ground and went toward the house. One window of the sitting-room was partly open, for the night was mild. He could see Miss Ri sitting by her lamp, a book in her hand. "Miss Ri," he called softly.
She came to the window. "Of all prowling tomcats," she began. "What are you back here for?"
"I forgot something. May I come in?"
"Linda has gone to bed."
"I didn't come to see Linda."
"Oh, you didn't. Well, I'll let you in, but you ought to know better than to come sneaking around a body's garden at this time of night."
"You see, I've gotten into the habit of it," Berkley told her. "I've done it for two nights running and I can't sleep till I've made the rounds."
"Silly!" exclaimed Miss Ri. But she came around to open the door for him. "Now, what is it you want?" she asked. "I've no midnight suppers secreted anywhere."
"Is thy servant a dog, that he comes merely to be fed?"
"I've had my suspicions at times," returned Miss Ri. "Come in, but don't talk loud, so as to waken Linda; the child needs all the sleep she can get. Now, go on; tell me what you want."
"I want you to tell me exactly who Linda's forbears were; that is, on the Talbot side. Her father was James, I know."
"Yes, and his father was Martin. He had a brother, but he died early; there were only the two sons, but there was a daughter, I believe."
"And their father was?"
"Let me see—Monroe? No, Madison; that's it,Madison Talbot, and his father was James again. I can't give you the collaterals so far back."
"Humph! Well, I reckon that will do."
"What in the world are you up to? Are you making a family tree for Linda?"
"No; but I have some curiosity upon the subject of old titles, and as it may come in my way, I thought I would look up Talbot's Angles."
"There's no use in doing that. Linda has the original land grant in her possession. Poor child, she clings to that, and I am glad she can. I wish to goodness you'd marry Grace, Berk Matthews, so Verlinda could get her rights."
"I'd do a good deal for a pretty girl, but I couldn't bring myself up to the scratch of marrying Grace Talbot. Now, if it were Linda herself, that might be a different matter."
"You'd get a treasure," avowed Miss Ri, shaking her head wisely. "She doesn't have to air her family silver in order to make people forget her mistakes in English."
"True, O wisest of women."
"There's another way out of it, Berk; the place reverts to Verlinda in the event of Grace's death."
"Do you mean I shall poison her or use a dagger, Lady Macbeth?"
"You great goose, of course I don't mean either such horrible thing. I was only letting my thoughts run on the possibilities of the case. I'mnot quite so degenerate as to wish for anyone's death, but I haven't found out yet why you were looking into the family procession of names."
"Oh, just a mere matter of legal curiosity, as I said. I come across them once in a while, and I wanted to get them straight in my mind. James, son of Martin, son of Madison, son of James; that's it, isn't it?" He checked them off on his fingers.
"That's it."
"Well, good-night, Miss Ri. I won't keep you any longer from that fascinating book at which you've been casting stealthy glances ever since I came in. Don't get up; I can let myself out."
Miss Ri did not immediately return to the book. "Now, what is he driving at?" she said to herself. "It's all poppycock about his interest in the names because he wants to get them straight in his mind. He's not so interested in Verlinda as all that, worse luck. I wish he were." She gave a little sigh and, adjusting her glasses, returned to the page before her.
"The old horse is neighing again," said Miss Ri, whimsically, one morning a little later. "I must go to town, Verlinda."
The girl looked up from some papers over which she was working. The two were sitting at the big table before an open fire, for it had suddenly turned colder. The room was very cosey, with warm touches of color found in the table-cover of red, in the yellow chrysanthemums by the window, and in the deep tones of the furniture. Linda looked frailer and thinner than when her life at the farm admitted of more open-air employment and less indoor. She did her work conscientiously, even thankfully, but hardly lovingly, and in consequence it was a constant strain upon her vitality. "What were you saying, Aunt Ri?" she asked, her thoughts vaguely lingering with her work, while yet she was conscious of Miss Ri's remark.
"I said the old horse was neighing again. There is another sale this week, a different express company this time, and I feel the call of the unknown. I think I'll go up by train, and then you will bealone but one night. Bertie enjoyed herself so much last time, that I am sure she will like to come again, if you want her. Bertie is a nice child, not an overstock of brains in some directions, but plenty of hard sense in others."
"Do you suppose it will be cough medicine this time?" asked Linda, making little spirals on the edge of her paper with her pencil.
"Heaven forfend! No, I'm going to bid on the biggest thing there, if it be a hogshead. I saw one man get a stuffed double-headed calf, and another the parts of some machine whose other belonging had evidently gone elsewhere. I shall try to avoid such things. I wish you could go with me, Verlinda; it is such fun." Miss Ri's eyes twinkled, as her hands busied themselves with some knitting she had taken up.
"I'd like to go," admitted Linda wistfully, "but it isn't a holiday, and I mustn't play truant. Good luck to you, Aunt Ri." She returned to her work, while Miss Ri knitted on for a while.
"Shall you be working long?" asked the latter presently. "I must make such an early start, that I think I'll go up, if you will put out the lights and see to the fire."
"I have considerably more to do," Linda answered, turning over her papers. "I'll put out the lights, Aunt Ri."
"Don't sit up too late," charged the other, stuffingher knitting into a gay, flowery bag. "Good-night, child. I'll be off before you are up. Just order anything you like, and don't bother about anything." She dropped a kiss upon the shining dark hair, and went her way, stopping to try the front door.
For half an hour Linda worked steadily, then she stacked her papers with a sigh, arose and drew a chair before the fire, whose charred logs were burning dully. She gave a poke to the smouldering ends, which sent up a spurt of sparks and caused the flame to burn brightly. With chin in hands, the girl sat for some time gazing into the fire which, after this final effort, was fast reducing itself to gray ashes and red embers. The old clock in the hall struck eleven slowly and solemnly. Miss Ri's quick tread on the floor above had ceased long before. The tick-tock of the clock and the crackle of the consuming wood were the only sounds. Linda returned to the table, picked up a bit of paper and began to write, at first rapidly, then with pauses for thought, frequent re-readings and many erasures. She occupied herself thus till the clock again struck deliberately but insistently. Linda lifted her head and counted. "Midnight," she exclaimed, "and I am still up. I wonder if it is worth it." She stopped to read once more the page she had finally written, then, tucking the paper into her blouse, she gathered up the rest, found a candle inone of the dignified old candlesticks, put out the lamp and tip-toed to her room.
The sun was shining brightly on the river when she awakened next morning. Miss Ri had gone long before. Linda had been dimly conscious of her stirring about, but had slept on, realizing vaguely that it was early. Her first movement was to sit up in bed, abstract a paper from under her pillow, and read it over. "I wondered how it would sound by daylight," she said to herself. "I think it isn't so bad, and it was such a joy to do it after those stupid papers. I wonder, I wonder if it is worth while." She tucked the paper away in her desk, feeling more blithe and content than for many a day. How blue the river was, how picturesque the tall-masted ships, how good the tang of the autumn air, laden with the odor of leaf-wine. Even the turkey-buzzards, sailing over the chimney-tops, gave individuality to the scene. It was a beautiful world, even though she must be shut up in a school-room all day with a parcel of restless urchins.
She went down-stairs humming a tune, to the delight of Phebe, who waited below. "Dat soun' lak ole times, honey chile," she said. "I ain't hyar dem little hummy tunes dis long while. I always use say to mahse'f, 'Dar come mah honey chile. I knows her by dat little song o' hers, same as I knows de bees by dere hummin' an' de robin by he whistle.' Come along, chile, fo' yo' breakfus spile." Shebustled back to the kitchen, and Linda entered the dining-room, warm from the fire in the wood stove and cheery by reason of the scarlet flowers with which Phebe had adorned the table. There was an odor of freshly-baked bread, of bacon, of coffee.
"I believe I'm hungry," said Linda.
Phebe's face beamed. "Dat soun' lak sumpin," she declared. "Jes' wait till I fetches in dem hot rolls. Dey pipin' hot right out o' de oben. I say hongry," she murmured to herself, as she went clumsily on her errand.
The day went well enough. On her way home from school, Linda stopped to ask Bertie to spend the night with her. But Bertie was off to a birthday dance in the country, which meant she would not be back till the next morning. She was "so sorry." If she had "only known," and all that. "But, of course, you can get someone else," she concluded by saying.
"Oh, I don't mind staying alone, if it comes to that," Linda told her.
"You stay too much alone, Linda."
"And I, who am surrounded all day by such a regiment of boys."
"Oh, they don't count; I mean girls of your own age. How are you getting along, Linda, by the way?"
"Oh, well enough," responded Linda doubtfully. "The more successful I am, the more it takes it outof me, however, and I am afraid I shall really never love teaching. Even though you may succeed in an undertaking, if you don't really love it, you tire more easily than if you did something much harder, but which you really loved."
"I suppose that may be true. Well, Linda, I hope you will not always be a teacher."
"I hope not," responded Linda frankly.
"I wish you would come over oftener, and would go around more with the girls. They would all love to have you."
Linda shook her head gravely. "That is very nice for you to say, but I couldn't do it—yet."
"Well, be sure you don't stay by yourself to-night," Bertie charged her.
Linda promised, and started off to fulfil the intention. Miss Parthy, from her porch, called to her as she went by. "When's Ri coming back?" she asked, over the heads of her three dogs, who occupied the porch with her.
"Not till to-morrow morning."
"You'd better come over here and sleep," Miss Parthy advised her. "I have an extra room, you know."
"And leave dear old Mammy to her lonesome? No, I think I'd better not, Miss Parthy; thank you. I'll get someone to stay."
"You can have one of the dogs," offered MissParthy quite seriously. "They are better than any watchman."
Linda thanked her, but the thought of Brownie's tail thumping on the floor outside her door, or of Pickett's sharp bark, or Flora's plaintive whine, decided her. "I think I'd rather have a human girl, thank you, Miss Parthy, and even if I find no one, it will be all right; I have stayed with only Mammy in the house dozens of times."
She continued her way, stopping at the house of this or that friend, but all were bound for the birthday party, and after two or three attempts she gave it up. Rather than put any more of the good-hearted girls to the pain of refusing, she would stay alone. More than one had offered to give up the dance, and this she could not allow another to propose. After all, it would not be bad, though Mammy should drop to sleep early, for there would be the cheerful fire and another bit of paper to cover with the lines which had been haunting her all day. She turned toward home again, with thoughtful tread, traversing the long street between rows of flaming maples or golden gum trees, whose offerings of scarlet and yellow fluttered to her feet at every step. There was the first hint of winter in the air, but the grass was green in the gardens and in the still unfrosted vines birds chattered and scolded, disputing right of way.
At the corner she met Mr. Jeffreys, who joined her. "Bound for a walk?" he asked. "May I go with you?"
As a girl will, who does not despise the society of a companionable man, she tacitly accepted his escort, and they went on down the street toward the river, where the red and yellow of trees appeared to have drifted to the sky, to be reflected in the waters below.
"Miss Talbot," said the young man, when they had wandered to where houses were few and scattered, "I have a confession to make."
Linda looked at him in surprise. He was rather a reticent person, though courteous and not altogether diffident. "To me?" she exclaimed.
"To you first, because—well, I will tell you that I, too, can claim kinship with the Talbot family. My great-grandfather and yours were brothers. Did you ever hear of Lovina Talbot?"
"Why, yes. Let me see; what have I heard? It will come back to me after a while. That branch of the Talbots left here years ago."
"Yes, just after the War of 1812. My great-grandfather, Cyrus, went to Western Pennsylvania. His only daughter, Lovina, was my grandmother. She married against his wishes, and then he married a second time—a Scotch-Irish girl of his neighborhood—and the families seem to have known little of one another after that. My father, CharlesJeffreys, was Lovina's son. He settled in Hartford, Connecticut. And now you have my pedigree."
"Why, then we are really blood relations. No wonder you were interested in the old Talbot place. Why—" she paused, hesitated, flushed up—"then it must be some of the Talbot property you are looking up."
"That is it; but I don't exactly know which it is, and without proof I can make no claim, as I have often said."
Linda ran over in her mind the various pieces of property which she was aware of having belonged to the original grants. "There was a good deal of it," she said. "Some of it was sold before my father's time, and he parted with more, so now all we have is the old homestead farm. I should like to know," she continued musingly, "which place you think it really is. I suppose it must be Timber Neck, for that was the first which passed out of our hands."
"I cannot tell, for I don't know exactly."
"Why didn't you make yourself known before? Didn't you know it would have made a difference to me—to us all, if you belonged, even remotely, to one of the old families?"
"Yes, I did, I suppose; but for that very reason I was slow to confess it. I came here under rather awkward circumstances. For a time I was in a position to be looked upon with suspicion, to beconsidered a mere adventurer. I may be yet," he continued, with a smile and a side glance at the girl, "even if I do pay my board bills and my laundress."
"Oh, we don't think that of you; we are quite sure you are genuine," Linda hastened to assure him.
"You have only my word. You don't know who my father was."
"You just told me he was Charles Jeffreys."
"Yes, but—" He did not finish the sentence. "I thought it was due you to know something of myself and my errand."
"I am glad to know it."
"Thank you. That is very good of you. Do you mind if I ask that you do not repeat what I have been telling you?"
"Not even to Miss Ri?"
Mr. Jeffreys considered the question. "I think Miss Hill should certainly know, for she was my first friend; and Mr. Matthews, too, perhaps. I will tell them and ask them to respect my secret for the present. When I can come among you as one who has a right to claim ancestry with one of your Eastern Shore families, that will be a different thing."
"BUT YOU MUST NOT CALL ME COUSIN," SAID LINDA.
"BUT YOU MUST NOT CALL ME COUSIN," SAID LINDA.
Linda would like to have asked for more of his personal history and, as if reading her thought, he went on: "I have not had a wildly-adventurous life;it has been respectably commonplace. I had a fair education, partly in Europe; but I am not college-bred. My father was a gentleman, but not over-successful in business. He left only a life insurance for my mother, enough for her needs, if used with care. My mother died two years ago, and I have neither brother nor sister."
Linda's sympathy went out. "Neither have I brother nor sister," she returned softly. "I can understand just how lonely you must be. But you know you have discovered a cousin, and you may consider it a real relationship."
The young man cast her a grateful look. "That makes me feel much less of an alien. I am afraid an outsider would not meet with such graciousness up our way."
"But you must not call me cousin," said Linda, "or we shall have your secret public property, and that will never do." Her sweet eyes were very tenderly bright, and the gentle curve of her lips suggested a smile.
"She is much prettier than I thought," the young man told himself. "She has always looked so pale and unresponsive, I thought she lacked animation; but when one sees—I beg your pardon," he was roused by Linda's speaking. "Oh, yes; it is getting on to supper time, I am afraid. Perhaps we'd better turn back."
They returned by the river walk, parting at MissRi's gate. "Good-night, cousin," said Linda, "and good luck to you."
The walk had stirred her blood, the talk had roused a new and romantic interest in her companion, and the same song which Phebe had heard in the morning was on her lips as she entered the house.
Phebe was on the watch for her. "Ain't nobody comin' to eat suppah with yuh?" she inquired.
"No; the girls are all off to a dance in the country. I don't need anyone, Mammy. You and I have been alone many a time before this, and it will seem like old times."
Mammy looked at her critically. "Yuh sholy is beginnin' to git some roses in yo' cheeks," she said. "Whar yuh been?"
"Just around town a little, and then I took a walk by the river."
"By yose'f? Who dat come to de gate wi' yuh?"
"You prying old Mammy. I believe you could see even around the corner. That was Mr. Jeffreys."
"Dat bo'ds wi' Miss Parthy an' feeds de chickens?"
"That is the one."
"Humph!" Mammy's tones expressed contempt. Who was he to be gallanting her young lady around town? But she knew better than to follow up herexpressive ejaculation with any spoken comment, and went in without another word.
It was a quiet, cosey evening that Linda spent. It being Friday, there were no lessons to be considered for the morrow, and so she smiled over her own scribbling or smiled into the fire when pleasant thoughts possessed her. At the end of the evening, there was a carefully-copied contribution, which was ready to go to a weekly paper; but so precious was it, that it must not be trusted to remain on the sitting-room table, but must be carried upstairs until, with her own hand, she could take it to the postoffice.
As she went to her window to draw down the shades, a handful of pebbles clicked against the pane. She raised the sash and looked out. "I'm making the rounds," said a voice from below. "Good-night." And through the dimness she saw Wyatt Jeffreys' tall figure tramping around the corner of the house.
"That is nice of him," she said to herself. "Poor fellow, I hope he does recognize that I don't mean to be offish. I am sure he is proving his own cousinly consideration."
Miss Ri arrived betimes that Saturday morning. She was in high glee and declared she had made the luckiest bid yet, for her "old horse" proved to be a box of books. "Not bad ones, either," she declared, "and those I have duplicates of, I can give away at Christmas. The box was certainly well worth the two dollars I paid for it."
"New books, are they?" Linda inquired.
"Quite new, and it looks as if they had been selected for someone's library. We'll have a good time looking them over when they get here. Here's something else for your consideration, Linda: Berk Matthews went with me. He is the greatest one to tease. I met him on the street and couldn't get rid of him. I didn't want him to go to the sale, but the more I tried to shake him off, the more determined he was to stay with me, and finally I had to let him go along. Well, he became interested, too. Oh, I have a joke on him. He bought a trunk."
"A trunk?"
"Yes, a nice little compact trunk, which he sayswill be just the thing for him to take when he goes off with Judge Baker. It has the letters J. S. D. on it, which Berk declares mean 'Judge Some Day,' and he doesn't mean to change them. He is a nonsensical creature."
"What is in the trunk?"
"Oh, he hadn't opened it; for, of course, he had no key. He was in a hurry to see his mother and sister, and didn't want to bother with the trunk then. He is going to stay over till Sunday. That is a good son, Verlinda. I wish you could see the beautiful little desk he bought for his mother's birthday. I went with him to pick it out. It is on account of the birthday that he went up to the city. I am firmly convinced that he will not marry until he can give his mother just as much as he gives his wife."
"That would be expecting a little too much, wouldn't it?"
"Not from Berk's present point of view. Nothing is too good for that mother of his, and when Margaret was married, well, no girl in town could have had a better outfit. I don't believe Berk has had even a new necktie since."
"Then I'll crochet him one for a Christmas gift," said Linda smiling. "What color would you suggest?"
"A dull blue would be becoming to his style of beauty."
"Not much beauty there."
"Not exactly beauty, maybe, but Berk looks every inch a man."
"And not any superfluous inches, unless you measure his shoulders and take him in square measure."
"Well, Verlinda, you must admit he has a fine, honest face."
"So has Brownie, Miss Parthy's setter."
"That is just like a foolish girl. I'll venture to say you think Mr. Jeffreys much better looking."
"Far handsomer. By the way—no, I'll not tell you; I'll let him do that."
"You rouse my curiosity. Tell me."
"I don't need to, for here comes the young man himself."
Mr. Jeffreys was seen coming up between the borders of box which led from Miss Parthy's back fence to Miss Ri's back door. He skirted the chrysanthemum beds, and came around to the front door, Miss Ri watching him the while. "Berk would have bolted in through the kitchen," she commented. "I don't suppose anything would induce Mr. Jeffreys to be seen coming in the back door. I am surprised that he did as much as to come in through the garden." She went to the door to meet him.
Conscious of his lack of ceremony, Mr. Jeffreys began to apologize at once. "I hope you will pardon my taking the short cut, Miss Hill; but I promisedMiss Turner that I would deliver this note into your hands before the ink had time to dry."
"I should be much less inclined to forgive you, if you had taken the long way around," replied Miss Ri. "Come in, Mr. Jeffreys, and let us see what this weighty matter is."
He followed her into the sitting-room, where Linda was watering some house-plants lately brought in. "Here, Verlinda, you entertain Mr. Jeffreys while I answer this note," said Miss Ri. "It's about a church meeting, and Parthy thinks I don't know, or haven't made up my mind to go, or something. I shall have to relieve her mind."
Mr. Jeffreys drew near to Linda at the window. "I hope you slept without fear of robbers," he said.
She looked up smiling. "Oh, yes. I felt very safe after your examination of bolts and bars." She went on with her task, nipping off a dead leaf here, straightening a bent twig there. "They don't look very well, yet," she said. "It takes plants some time to become used to a change of habitation."
"Like some people," he returned.
She gave him an understanding nod. "Yes, but just as surely they will thrive under proper treatment."
Miss Ri left her desk and came toward them. "I'm not going to ask you to deliver this, Mr. Jeffreys, for I want to send Parthy a lemon pie that Phebe has just baked, and I'd never trust a manto carry a lemon pie. Just sit down and I'll be back in a moment."
"Are you going to tell her?" asked Linda, when the door had closed after Miss Ri.
"Maybe. It will depend. I won't force the information."
"Get her to tell you about her trip to town; she is so funny about it."
"Miss Hill, you are to tell me about your trip to town," began Mr. Jeffreys when Miss Ri returned.
"I shall not do it," she declared. "What do you mean, Verlinda Talbot, by trying to get me to tell my secrets?"
"Maybe if you do, Mr. Jeffreys will tell you one of his."
"In that case, we must make a compact. Can you keep a secret, Mr. Jeffreys?"
"I have kept my own, so far."
"But another's is quite a different matter."
"I will keep yours, if you will keep mine."
"Then it is a bargain. Well, then, I have a fad for buying 'old horse.' You don't know what 'old horse' is? It's the stuff the express companies collect in the course of some months. If persons refuse to pay expressage, if the address is wrong, if it has been torn off, you see how it would be, they have a sale, an auction. I enjoy the fun of buying 'a pig in a poke.' Sometimes it turns out a nice fat pig and sometimes it doesn't."
"And this time?"
"It was a nice fat one. I became the possessor of a box of really good and desirable books. Perhaps I shouldn't be so ready to tell, if Berk Matthews hadn't been along; but I'm quite sure he will think it too good a story on me not to tell it. But I have one on him, too. He bid for a trunk, and it was knocked down to him."
"A trunk? You know I am interested in stray trunks. If mine had been sent by express, I'd be very keen about it."
"How was yours sent?"
"A local expressman was to take it to the steamer and I was unable to identify him when the trunk didn't turn up. I had his claim check, but that was in the pocket-book of which I was robbed—so you see—There was a tag on the trunk, but that might have been torn off. Well, let's hear about Mr. Matthew's trunk. It's rather interesting, this, and may give me a clue to mine."
"My dear young man, I fear a dishonest driver is what is wrong in your direction, or your trunk may have been stolen from the wagon, or have fallen off. However, that is an old subject, isn't it? Mr. Matthews' is a neat little steamer trunk, of rather an old fashion. Of course, he has no key, and had no time to get a locksmith, so we don't know the contents."
"Mine was a small steamer trunk, not of a newfashion. It had been my mother's; but, being small and in good condition, I used it for myself, old as it was. It had her initials on it, for she had it before she was married."
Miss Ri leaned forward and asked earnestly: "What were they?"
"J. S. D. Julia Somers Darby was her maiden name."
Miss Ri looked at him excitedly. "J. S. D.? My dear man, those are the very initials on Berk's trunk."
It was Mr. Jeffreys' turn to look agitated. "Miss Hill, are you sure? Do you think—?" he began. "Miss Hill, could it be possible that it is my trunk? Will you tell me all the details? Where is this place that you found it? Perhaps, though, I'd best see Matthews."
"But he has not yet come back."
"True; I had forgotten that."
"I can tell you where the place is," continued Miss Ri, "if it will do any good," and she proceeded to describe the locality, Mr. Jeffreys listening intently.
"It is well worth looking into," he decided. "I don't suppose there is any chance of my catching Mr. Matthews in town before he leaves?"
"There is no boat up to-night, you know."
"That is so. I did not remember that this was Saturday."
"Moreover, if you were to take the train, very likely he would have left by the time you could reach the city. Better possess your soul in patience, Mr. Jeffreys, and wait till he gets back."
"I have been patient for some time," he responded quietly.
"To be sure, you have; so that twenty-four hours longer will not seem impossible. It certainly is a curious coincidence, though doubtless there are other steamer trunks bearing the initials J. S. D."
"Yes, I admit that; and how mine could have found its way to the express office is another puzzle."
"I shouldn't bother much about the how, if you discover that it really did reach there."
There was a pause for a moment, then Linda said: "You haven't told Aunt Ri your secret yet, cousin."
Miss Ri wheeled around in her chair. "Cousin! What are you talking about, Verlinda Talbot?"
"Our great-grandfathers were brothers, Miss Hill," said Mr. Jeffreys. "It doesn't give a very near relationship, I admit, but there it is and we are of the same blood."
"Well, I am astonished. Tell me all about it, right away. Your great-grandfather on the Talbot side, is it, Verlinda? Yours was Madison, and who was yours, Mr. Jeffreys?"
"Cyrus, whose daughter Lovina married WyattJeffreys, after whom I am named. My grandfather that was, you see."
"And that is why the name always sounded so familiar," exclaimed Linda. "I am sure I have heard my grandmother speak of him, for you see, Lovina would be her husband's first cousin. Go on, please, Mr. Jeffreys."
"Very well. After the War of 1812, Cyrus Talbot removed to Western Pennsylvania. I believe his house was burned during that war, and he, like many others, was seized with the spirit of emigration to the West."
"The old house at Talbot's Addition was burned, you remember," cried Linda, turning to Miss Ri, "though I don't know just when." She turned again to Mr. Jeffreys.
"Lovina married a young Englishman," he continued. "In those days the feeling was very bitter against the English, and her father refused to see her; but after his death an old box of papers came into her possession, and they were found to be his. He had married a second time, but there were no children by this marriage. By his will, Cyrus Talbot left most of his property in Western Pennsylvania to his wife, but a clause of the will read: 'The remainder of my property to my daughter Lovina.' A little farm in that part of the country to which he emigrated was supposed to be all that came to Lovina, but the old papers show, we believe,that he still had a claim to estates here in Maryland. Lovina went to England after her marriage, and the papers were left with some of the neighbors, though she seems to have had possession of them afterward, for there was a memorandum giving the name and address of the persons in whose care it was eventually left. This memorandum my father found after her death, and when he came to this country later on, he hunted up the box and told me several times that there might be something in those papers if one had time or would take the trouble to look them over. He settled in Hartford and died there. My father left a life insurance which was sufficient for my mother's needs and which has descended to me now that she is gone. I have not studied a profession, but had a clerkship, which seemed to promise little future, and after thinking over the situation, I determined to make a break, come down here and see if there were really anything to be done about that property."
He concluded his story. Miss Ri sat drumming on the arms of her chair, as was her habit when thinking deeply. Linda, no less preoccupied, sat with eyes fixed upon the plants in the window. It was she who broke the silence. "It must be Talbot's Addition," she decided; "but, oh, what a snarl for the lawyers."
"It certainly will be," agreed Miss Ri, with a little laugh. "My dear man, I am thinking the gamewill not be worth the candle. However, we shall see. If Berk takes up your case, you may be sure of honest dealing, at least. He little knows what his purchase has brought about."
Yet it was not at the end of twenty-four hours that Wyatt Jeffreys received the assurance he hoped for, though he sought the Jackson House immediately upon the arrival of the morning boat. Mr. Matthews was not there. Had he arrived? Oh, yes; he came in on the train the night before, but went off again with Judge Baker first thing in the morning. When would he be back? Not for some time. He took a trunk with him, and would be making the circuit with the judge.
Therefore Wyatt Jeffreys turned disappointedly away. He went directly to Miss Ri, who observed him walking so dejectedly up the gravelled path, that she went out on the porch to meet him.
"Wasn't it your trunk?" she began. "I had worked myself quite into the belief that it must be, so I am not ready for a disappointment."
"It is not exactly disappointment, but only hope deferred," was the reply. "Mr. Matthews came last night, but went off early this morning with Judge Baker."
"Pshaw! that is trying, isn't it? However, we must make the best of it. Perhaps he didn't take the trunk."
"He tookatrunk."
"I wonder if he started from the Jackson House or his office? We might make a tour of investigation. Just wait till I look to one or two things, and then we'll see what can be done."
She did not keep him waiting long, and together they went first to the square brick building, with its white columns, which was designated the Jackson House. Its porch was occupied by various persons who, with chairs tipped back, were smoking sociably. In the lobby were gathered others who, less inclined for outdoor air, were taking a morning cigar there. Miss Ri interviewed the clerk, porter, and chambermaid to gather the information that Mr. Matthews had come in on the train with a trunk, which came up on the bus with him and which the porter afterward carried to his office; the same trunk it was which he took with him that morning.
"Now we'll go to his office," decided Miss Ri as they left the hotel. "I am wondering what he did with the papers. There is probably a youngster in charge of the office, who can tell us something."
The office was just across the street. Here they learned that Mr. Matthews had come in that morning in a great rush to gather up what he should need for the trip. "He was here last night, too, Miss Ri," said the lad, a fresh-faced youngster of seventeen or so. "He told me he had to do somework, and he came to my house and got the key."
"Do you know if he took any papers from his trunk to leave behind?" inquired Miss Ri.
"I don't know; but if he did, they would be in the little room upstairs. I can see. Were there some papers of yours, Miss Ri? Perhaps I could find them, if you will tell me what they are."
"There were some papers belonging to a particular case which I wanted to get at," she explained.
The lad hesitated when she asked, "Could we go up to the little room?"
"It's not in very good order," he told her. "It's where Mr. Matthews keeps odds and ends."
"We shall not mind the disorder," Miss Ri told him. So he led the way up a narrow stairway to a little attic room with a small dusty-paned window at each end. The room held a motley collection of things: saddles and bridles, a shooting outfit, two or three old hats hung on the wall, one or two boxes of books and pamphlets were shoved under some rough shelves. The boy dragged out a large valise stuffed so full that its sides gaped. It was locked, but from one end hung a cravat, which Mr. Jeffreys drew out, slowly examining it, Miss Ri regarding him questioningly.
"It looks very like one of mine," he said; "but I don't lay claim to a particular brand of tie." He turned over the heavy valise, shaking it from sideto side. From the bulging crevice fell a card upon which was printed, "Wyatt B. Jeffreys, Hartford Fire Insurance Co." The young man held it out silently to Miss Ri, who gasped, "Of all things! That settles it."
"When do you expect Mr. Matthews?" Miss Ri asked the boy, who was watching them curiously.
"Oh, not for a week or more. He told me to hold down the office till he came, so I'm keeping the lid on the best I know how. I don't see any papers marked for you, Miss Ri." He looked around on the shelves at some dusty collections.
"No? Well, never mind; we can see about it later. Suppose we slip that card and necktie back, Mr. Jeffreys? Thank you, Billy, for letting us come up." Everyone in town was known to Miss Ri, as she was known to everyone.
Once out in the street, Miss Ri gave voice to her conjectures. "Of course, Mr. Jeffreys, we can be positive now, don't you think?"
"One might suppose so, only that I have been thinking I may have given Matthews one of my cards which I chanced to have with me, and he has stuffed it into his valise along with other things which may have no connection with me whatever. I can't exactly believe it is proof positive."
"But the cravat?"
"Almost anyone might have a blue spotted tie like that. No, Miss Hill; I can't say I think it wise to jump at the conclusion."
"Oh, dear me, the masculine mind does work more deliberately than ours, doesn't it? At all events, I think it is something to go on, if not absolute proof. Let me see; first the trunk with the same initials, next the cravat, then the card. One doesn't expect to meet three such coincidences and gain no result, does one? Eliminate two, and you still have one pretty good proof, I should say. What are you going to do next, pending Berk's return? You surely don't mean to sit down and twiddle your thumbs?"
"No, hardly. I think I will go up to the city and interview the express people. If this is really my trunk, it may be superfluous to make the trip, but it will give me something to do, and may bring about some satisfactory conclusion."
"It isn't a bad move," returned Miss Ri. "You know the date, I suppose, and no doubt they have some record."
"That is what I am hoping for. If I only knew the number, which they must have marked on the trunk, it would help."
"How would it do to follow up Berk? You could probably find out where the judge is going; it may be his family can tell. Suppose we stop by and see what Mrs. Baker can tell us?"
But the Baker family were all in the city and that clue was dropped. Then the two returned to Miss Ri's and bethought themselves of getting Berkley on the telephone, but this, too, failed. He had been to the hotel, in a certain little town, which they called up, but had departed. Where was he going next? "Couldn't say."
"That clips off one thread," said Miss Ri, putting down the receiver. "You'd better go to town, after all. It will keep you occupied, and it is always a relief to be doing something, when one must wait. You'd get there quicker by taking the train, but the boat is cheaper, and I don't know that you would gain anything by starting earlier, for it would be too late to accomplish anything if you did get in this evening. You'll report progress, of course, when you get back?"
"Surely."
Miss Ri watched him depart, and then sat for a long time pondering over the situation. Why should she interest herself in a stranger? And supposing it were so that he found his papers and proved his claim, mightn't that mean loss to Linda; or if not to her, to someone they all had known as a neighbor? It might possibly be Talbot's Angles. No, that couldn't be, thought Miss Ri, for everyone knows it belonged to Jim Talbot and his father before him. Well, it is all very puzzling, and Lindamay yet have her chance. Grace is just the silly kind of pretty woman to attract some blind bat of a man. There comes my girlie; I must tell her all the news. "It's the greatest comfort in the world to have someone in the house I can gossip to," she said as Linda entered. "I don't know what I did before you came."
"Stepped out the back way to Miss Parthy."
"Yes, that is just what I did; but fond as I am of Parthy Turner, there are subjects I would rather not discuss with her, to say nothing of the plague of finding a man in the way whenever I go over there nowadays. Tired, are you?"
"Not so very. If I am half the comfort to you that you are to me, Aunt Ri, I am very glad."
"So we are mutually satisfied; that is good. Lie down there on the sofa till dinner is ready, and I'll tell you what I've been doing."
Linda obeyed, and Miss Ri gave an account of the pursuit of clues, ending up with, "Now, what do you think of it?"
"I think it is very remarkable, to say the least, and I am inclined to believe with you that the trunk Berk bought is really Mr. Jeffreys'. Aunt Ri, do you suppose Berk could have found that out? I don't see why he shouldn't have made the discovery as soon as he opened it, in which case I think he ought to have notified Mr. Jeffreys at once."
"My dear, I don't for a moment think that of Berk. He is too honest and straightforward, and besides, what would be his object?"
"I don't know; yet, if he removed the papers, how could he help seeing whose they were? They must have been marked in some way to identify them."
"I don't believe he noticed them at all."
"Wouldn't you have done so?"
"I am a woman, and a woman always notices details more quickly than a man. Don't be suspicious, Verlinda."
"I'm not; but I can't help conjecturing."
"It isn't worth while to do even that till the two come back. We will nab Berk as soon as he gets here and have it settled. I don't know when anything so exciting has occurred in this town, and to think it concerns you, too. We mustn't let it get out, or the whole place will be agog. That young man is right to keep his affairs to himself."
But in spite of Miss Ri's intention to nab Berkley Matthews as soon as he returned, that opportunity was not accorded her, for though she called up his office daily, he arrived one evening and was off again the next day, unfortunately making his call at Miss Ri's when neither she nor Linda was at home. Mrs. Becky Hill had come to town and had carried off Miss Ri, willy-nilly, to look at a horse which Mrs. Becky thought of buying. When Miss Ri returned from the five-mile drive, Phebe met her at the door,saying, "Mr. Matthews done been hyar whilst yuh away, Miss Ri. He lef' a note on de table in de settin'-room."
Miss Ri was reading the note when Linda came in. "Now isn't this hard luck?" exclaimed the older woman. "Becky came in this afternoon and nothing would do but I must be dragged off to Hillside to see about a horse she has an idea of buying. She wanted my advice, as if I were a horse-dealer and spent my time looking in horses' mouths to count their teeth."
"Didn't you have a pleasant drive? It is a lovely day," returned Linda.
"Oh, it was pleasant enough; I really enjoyed it, but it made me miss Berk Matthews. Here's a note from him saying he was sorry not to find us at home and that he is going off duck-shooting down the bay. Isn't that provoking?"
"It surely is. Does he say anything about the trunk?"
"Not a syllable."
"Nor when he will be back?"
"Not a word. Here read for yourself."
Linda took the hastily-scribbled note, written in the rather cramped, lawyer-like handwriting which she had come to know as Berkley's:
"Sorry not to see you. Am off for some duck-shooting. I will bring a brace to you and we'lleat them together, allowing Linda the bones to pick."In haste,"Berk."
"Sorry not to see you. Am off for some duck-shooting. I will bring a brace to you and we'lleat them together, allowing Linda the bones to pick.
"In haste,
"Berk."
That was all.
"It sounds very like Berk," said Linda, "and it doesn't seem possible that he could be keeping away on purpose. Mr. Jeffreys will be very much disappointed, I am afraid."
"Of course, it is not on purpose. What an idea, Verlinda! All the men go duck-shooting this time of year; it's about all the amusement they get in this part of the world. You wouldn't deprive him of it?"
"Yes, I would; for I don't like even ducks to be killed. However, I suppose it is inevitable."
"Of course it is inevitable while ducks fly over the waters of the bay. For my part, I like to see the lads go off in their shooting clothes, with their dogs and their guns. Ducks can't live forever, and if we don't eat them, something else will."
"If they were all killed outright, I shouldn't care so much; for, of course, they are intended for food, but I can't bear to think of their only being wounded and of their suffering, perhaps, for days."
"You have too tender a heart, Verlinda, for a girl who has been brought up in a hunting community."
"Perhaps that is the very reason; because I have seen something of what it means to the poor ducks. Have you seen Mr. Jeffreys? He was to have returned this morning."
"No, I haven't seen him. I'll call up Parthy and find out if he has returned. If he has, I'll ask her to send him over."