Do you ride, Miss Dorothy?"
"Yes," she said.
A stable lad brought his horse to the porch. He took leave of Dorothy
with a grace that charmed even me; yet, in his bearing towards her I
could detect the tender pride he had in her, and that left me cold and
thoughtful.
All liked him, though none appeared to regard him exactly as a kinsman,
nor accorded him that vague shade of intimacy which is felt in kinship,
not in comradeship alone, and which they already accorded me.
Dorothy walked with him to the stockade gate, the stable lad following
with his horse; and I saw them stand there in low-voiced conversation,
he lounging and switching at the weeds with his riding-crop; she, head
bent, turning the gold thimble over and over between her fingers. And I
wondered what they were saying.
Presently he mounted and rode away, a graceful, manly figure in the
saddle, and not turning like a fop to blow a kiss at his betrothed, nor
spurring his horse to show his skill--for which I coldly respected him.
Harry, Cecile, and the children gathered their paints and books and
went into the house, demanding that I should follow.
"Dorothy is beckoning us," observed Ruyven, gathering up his paints.
I looked towards her and she raised her hand, motioning us to come.
"About father's watch," she said.
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