Luce lived the other side of "the Crick." The young man coming along
the road was his son, just arrived home.
As he came nearer, I took notice of his dress. I usually did, when
people came from the city. He wore a black bombazine coat, white
trousers, white waistcoat, blue necktie, and a Panama hat. His
complexion was fair, with plenty of light hair waving about his temples.
He stepped briskly along, with shoulders set back, twirling his glove.
I knew Warren Luce well enough. I could tell just how it would strike
him, seeing David up in a tree, flinging down apples to a girl. I could
very well judge, too, how he would encounter the fair apparition
beneath.
But how would he strike Mary Ellen,--this polished, smooth-tongued,
handsomely dressed youth? I had forebodings. I seemed to divine the
future. I fidgeted upon my seat, and straightened myself up, rather
pleased that my studies were getting complicated,--that I should have a
chance of searching out the natural heart of woman, when under the most
trying circumstances.
But just as I was making ready to commence upon my new chapter, Mrs.
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