"No," she said at last; "that is not
Sylvanus, but it is his brother Timotheus with Tryphosa. They are
sitting in a ferny hollow under these birches down the hill, with a
hymn-book between them, and as grave as if they were in church. Do you
not think, Mr. Coristine, that that is a very nice and proper way for
young people to improve their acquaintance?"
"Very much so, Miss Carmichael. May I go in and get a hymn book? I can
run like a deer, and won't take a minute over it. One will be enough,
won't it?"
The lady laughed a little pleasant laugh, and replied: "I think not,
sir. We are not servants, at least in the same sense, and the piano and
organ are at our disposal when we wish to exercise our musical powers."
"Snubbed again," muttered Coristine to himself; then aloud: "I wish I
were Timotheus."
"If you prefer Tryphosa's company to mine, sir, you are at liberty to
go; but I think your champion of Peskiwanchow would object to such
rivalry."
"Oh, I didn't mean with Tryphosa."
"You do not know what you mean, nor anybody else. Let us return to the
house."
As they sauntered back, the lawyer suddenly cried out: "What a forgetful
blockhead I am.
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