Her
half-suppressed excitement at the sudden duty of welcoming the great
aristocrat of the county, gave a piquancy to her prettiness.
"The--devil!" commented Mr. Harry Cresswell to himself. But to Miss
Taylor:
"I beg pardon--er--Miss Smith?"
"No--I'm sorry. Miss Smith is engaged this morning. I am Miss Taylor."
"I cannot share Miss Taylor's sorrow," returned Mr. Cresswell gravely,
"for I believe I have the honor of some correspondence with Miss
Taylor's brother." Mr. Cresswell searched for the letter, but did not
find it.
"Oh! Has John written you?" She beamed suddenly. "I'm so glad. It's more
than he's done for me this three-month. I beg your pardon--do sit
down--I think you'll find this one easier. Our stock of chairs is
limited."
It was delightful to have a casual meeting receive this social stamp;
the girl was all at once transfigured--animated, glowing, lovely; all of
which did not escape the caller's appraising inspection.
"There!" said Mr. Cresswell. "I've left your gate gaping."
"Oh, don't mind ... I hope John's well?"
"The truth is," confessed Cresswell, "it was a business matter--cotton,
you know."
"John is nothing but cotton; I tell him his soul is fibrous."
"He mentioned your being here and I thought I'd drop over and welcome
you to the South."
"Thank you," returned Miss Taylor, reddening with pleasure despite
herself.
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