"Your Aunt Lavinia, Ollie," said Richard, rising to his feet (this relationship was of the same character as that of Uncle Nathan Gill), "seems to think our manners are retrograding."
"Not yours?" protested Oliver, with a laugh, as he turned quickly toward Miss Clendenning.
"No, you sweetheart, nor yours," answered Miss Clendenning, with a sudden burst of affection.
"Come, now, you have lived nearly two years among these dreadful Yankees--what do you think of them?"
"What could I think of people who have been so kind to me? Fred Stone has been like a brother, and so has everybody else."
Mrs. Horn had joined the group and sat listening.
"But their manners, my son," she asked. "Do you see no difference between them and--and--and your father's, for instance?" and she motioned toward Richard who was now moving across the room to speak to other guests.
"Dad is himself and you are yourself and I am myself," replied Oliver with some positiveness.
"When people are kind I never stop to think how they do it."
"Lovely," Miss Clendenning whispered to Nathan.
"Spoken like a thoroughbred. Yes, he is BETTER than my ugly prince. He would always have remembered how they did it."
"And you see no difference either in the ladies?" continued Mrs. Horn, with increasing interest in her tones. "Are the young girls as sweet and engaging?"
She had seen Margaret's name rather often in his letters and wondered what impression she had made upon him. Oliver's eyes flashed and the color mounted to his cheeks. Miss Clendenning saw it and bent forward a little closer to get his answer.
"Well, you see, mother, I do not know a great many, I am so shut up. Miss Grant, whom I wrote you about, is--well, you must see her. She is not the kind of girl that you can describe very well--she really is not the kind of girl that you can describe at all. We have been together all summer, and I stopped at her father's house for a few days when I came down from the mountains. They live in the most beautiful valley you ever saw."
Miss Clendenning was watching him closely. She caught a look that his mother had missed.
"Is she pretty, Ollie?" asked Miss Lavinia.
"She is better than pretty. You would not say the Milo was pretty, would you? There is too much in her for prettiness."
"And are the others like her?" The little lady was only feeling about, trying to put her finger on the pulse of his heart.
"No; there is nobody like her. Nobody I have ever met."
Miss Clendenning was sure now.
Malachi's second entrance--this time with the great china bowl held above his head--again interrupted the general talk.
Since the memory of man no such apple-toddy had ever been brewed!
Even Colonel Clayton, when he tasted it, looked over his glass and nodded approvingly at its creator --a recognition of genius which that happy darky acknowledged by a slight bend of his back, anything else being out of the question by reason of the size of the bowl he was carrying and the presence of his master and of his master's guests.
This deposited on a side table, another bowl filled with Olio--a most surprising and never-to-be-forgotten salad of chicken and celery and any number of other toothsome things--was placed beside it, together with a plate of moonshines and one of Maryland biscuits.
Then came some music, in which Oliver sang and Miss Clendenning played his accompaniments--the old plantation melodies, not the new songs--and next the "wrappings up" in the hall, the host and hostess and the whole party moving out of the drawing-room in a body. Here Nathan, with great gallantry, insisted on getting down on his stiff marrow-bones to put on Miss Clendenning's boots, while the young men and Oliver tied on the girls' hoods, amid "good-byes" and "so glads" that he could come home if only for a day, and that he had not forgotten them, Oliver's last words being whispered in Miss Clendenning's ear informing her that he would come over in the morning and see her about a matter of the greatest importance. And so the door was shut on the last guest.
When the hall was empty Oliver kissed his father good-night, and, slipping his arm around his mother's waist, as he had always done when a boy, the two went slowly upstairs to his little room. He could not wait a minute longer. He must unburden his heart about Margaret. This was what he had come for. If his mother had only seen her it would be so much easier, be said to himself as he pushed open his bedroom door.
"You are greatly improved, my son," she said, with a tone of pride in her voice. "I see the change already." She had lighted the candle and the two were seated on the bed, his arm still around her.
"How, mother?"
"Oh, in everything. The boy is gone out of you.
You are more reposeful; more self-reliant. I like your modesty too." She could tell him of his faults, she could also tell him of his virtues.
"And the summer has done you good," she continued.
"I felt sure it would. Mr. Slade has been a steadfast friend of yours from the beginning. Tell me now about your new friends. This Miss Grant --is she not the same girl you wrote me about, some mouths ago--the one who drew with you at the art school? Do you like her people?" This thought was uppermost in her mind--had been in fact ever since she first saw Margaret's name in his letters.
"Her mother is lovely and she has got a brother --a Dartmouth man--who is a fine fellow. I liked him from the first moment I saw him;" Oliver answered simply, wondering how he would begin.
"Is her father living?"
"Yes."
"What kind of a man is he?"
"Well--of course, he is not like our people. He is a--well--he always says just what be thinks, you know. But he is a man of character and position."
He was speaking for Margaret now. "They have more family portraits than we have." This was said in a tone that was meant to carry weight.
"And people of education?"
