FullReads

“You never saw me in my rehearsal dress before,” she said, with a laugh. “But I’m not ‘company’ to-day, and didn’t put on my best harness to knock round in. I suppose I look dreadful.”

“I don’t think you look bad,” said Rand simply.

“Thank you,” said Euphemia, with a laugh and a courtesy. “But this isn’t getting the dinner.”

As part of that operation evidently was the taking-off of her hat, the putting-up of some thick blond locks that had escaped, and the rolling-up of her sleeves over a pair of strong, rounded arms, Rand lingered near her. All trace of the “Pet’s” previous professional coquetry was gone,–perhaps it was only replaced by a more natural one; but as she looked up, and caught sight of Rand’s interested face, she laughed again, and colored a little. Slight as was the blush, it was sufficient to kindle a sympathetic fire in Rand’s own cheeks, which was so utterly unexpected to him that he turned on his heel in confusion. “I reckon she thinks I’m soft and silly, like Ruth,” he soliloquized, and, determining not to look at her again, betook himself to a distant and contemplative pipe. In vain did Miss Euphemia address herself to the ostentatious getting of the dinner in full view of him; in vain did she bring the coffee-pot away from the fire, and nearer Rand, with the apparent intention of examining its contents in a better light; in vain, while wiping a plate, did she, absorbed in the distant prospect, walk to the verge of the mountain, and become statuesque and forgetful. The sulky young gentleman took no outward notice of her.

Mrs. Sol’s attendance upon Mornie prevented her leaving the cabin, and Rand and Miss Euphemia dined in the open air alone. The ridiculousness of keeping up a formal attitude to his solitary companion caused Rand to relax; but, to his astonishment, the “Pet” seemed to have become correspondingly distant and formal. After a few moments of discomfort, Rand, who had eaten little, arose, and “believed he would go back to work.”

“Ah, yes!” said the “Pet,” with an indifferent air, “I suppose you must. Well, good-by, Mr. Pinkney.”

Rand turned. “YOU are not going?” he asked, in some uneasiness.

“I’VE got some work to do too,” returned Miss Euphemia a little curtly.

“But,” said the practical Rand, “I thought you allowed that you were fixed to stay until to-morrow?”

But here Miss Euphemia, with rising color and slight acerbity of voice, was not aware that she was “fixed to stay” anywhere, least of all when she was in the way. More than that, she MUST say–although perhaps it made no difference, and she ought not to say it–that she was not in the habit of intruding upon gentlemen who plainly gave her to understand that her company was not desirable. She did not know why she said this–of course it could make no difference to anybody who didn’t, of course, care–but she only wanted to say that she only came here because her dear friend, her adopted mother,–and a better woman never breathed,–had come, and had asked her to stay. Of course, Mrs. Sol was an intruder herself–Mr. Sol was an intruder–they were all intruders: she only wondered that Mr. Pinkney had borne with them so long. She knew it was an awful thing to be here, taking care of a poor–poor, helpless woman; but perhaps Mr. Rand’s BROTHER might forgive them, if he couldn’t. But no matter, she would go–Mr. Sol would go–ALL would go; and then, perhaps, Mr, Rand–

She stopped breathless; she stopped with the corner of her apron against her tearful hazel eyes; she stopped with–what was more remarkable than all–Rand’s arm actually around her waist, and his astonished, alarmed face within a few inches of her own.

“Why, Miss Euphemia, Phemie, my dear girl! I never meant anything like THAT,” said Rand earnestly. “I really didn’t now! Come now!”