"This David is among the flowers, I fancy; I will just ask, and not
bolt in, as he does not know me. "Where is Mr. Sterling?" added
Christie aloud, as she approached.
The man looked up, and a smile came into his eyes, as he glanced
from the old hood to the young face inside. Then he took off his
hat, and held out his hand, saying with just his mother's simple
directness:
"I am David; and this is Christie Devon, I know. How do you do?"
"Yes; dinner's ready," was all she could reply, for the discovery
that this was the "master," nearly took her breath away. Not the
faintest trace of the melancholy Jaques about him; nothing
interesting, romantic, pensive, or even stern. Only a
broad-shouldered, brown-bearded man, with an old hat and coat,
trousers tucked into his boots, fresh mould on the hand he had given
her to shake, and the cheeriest voice she had ever heard.
What a blow it was to be sure! Christie actually felt vexed with him
for disappointing her so, and could not recover herself, but stood
red and awkward, till, with a last scrape of his boots, David said
with placid brevity:
"Well, shall we go in?"
Christie walked rapidly into the house, and by the time she got
there the absurdity of her fancy struck her, and she stifled a laugh
in the depths of the little pumpkin-hood, as she hung it up.
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