Dr Heidenhoffs Process | Page 8

she thought him slightly
officious.
"Don't you remember you told me I might do so?" he said, getting a
little red under her cool inspection.
"When did I?"
"Two weeks ago, that evening poor George spoke in meeting."
"Oh!" she answered, smiling, "so long ago as that? What a terrible
memory you have! Come in just a moment, please; I'm nearly ready."

Whether she merely took his word for it, or whether she had
remembered her promise perfectly well all the time, and only wanted to
make him ask twice for the favour, lest he should feel too
presumptuous, I don't pretend to know. Mrs. Brand set a chair for him
with much cordiality. She was a gentle, mild-mannered little lady, such
a contrast in style and character to Madeline that there was a certain
amusing fitness in the latter's habit of calling her "My baby."
"You have a very pleasant day for your picnic, Mr. Burr," said she.
"Yes, we are very lucky," replied Henry, his eyes following Madeline's
movements as she stood before the glass, putting on her hat, which had
a red feather in it.
To have her thus add the last touches to her toilet in his presence was a
suggestion of familiarity, of domesticity, that was very intoxicating to
his imagination.
"Is your father well?" inquired Mrs. Brand, affably.
"Very well, thank you, very well indeed," he replied
"There; now I'm ready," said Madeline. "Here's the basket, Henry.
Good-bye, mother."
They were a well-matched pair, the stalwart young man and the tall,
graceful girl, and it is no wonder the girl's mother stood in the door
looking after them with a thoughtful smile.
Hemlock Hollow was a glen between wooded bluffs, about a mile up
the beautiful river on which Newville was situated, and boats had been
collected at the rendezvous on the river-bank to convey the picnickers
thither. On arriving, Madeline and Henry found all the party assembled
and in capital spirits; There was still just enough shadow on their
merriment to leave the disposition to laugh slightly in excess of its
indulgence, than which no condition of mind more favourable to a good
time can be imagined.

Laura was there, and to her Will Taylor had attached himself. He was a
dapper little black-eyed fellow, a clerk in the dry-goods store, full of
fun and good-nature, and a general favourite, but it was certainly rather
absurd that Henry should be apprehensive of him as a rival. There also
was Fanny Miller, who had the prettiest arm in Newville, a fact
discovered once when she wore a Martha Washington toilet at a
masquerade sociable, and since circulated from mouth to mouth among
the young men. And there, too, was Emily Hunt, who had shocked the
girls and thrown the youth into a pleasing panic by appearing at a
young people's party the previous winter in low neck and short sleeves.
It is to be remarked in extenuation that she had then but recently come
from the city, and was not familiar with Newville etiquette. Nor must I
forget to mention Ida Lewis, the minister's daughter, a little girl with
poor complexion and beautiful brown eyes, who cherished a hopeless
passion for Henry. Among the young men was Harry Tuttle, the clerk
in the confectionery and fancy goods store, a young man whose father
had once sent him for a term to a neighbouring seminary, as a result of
which classical experience he still retained a certain jaunty student air
verging on the rakish, that was admired by the girls and envied by the
young men.
And there, above all, was Tom Longman. Tom was a big, hulking
fellow, good-natured and simple-hearted in the extreme. He was the
victim of an intense susceptibility to the girls' charms, joined with an
intolerable shyness and self-consciousness when in their presence.
From this consuming embarrassment he would seek relief by working
like a horse whenever there was anything to do. With his hands
occupied he had an excuse for not talking to the girls or being
addressed by them, and, thus shielded from the, direct rays of their
society, basked with inexpressible emotions in the general atmosphere
of sweetness and light which they diffused. He liked picnics because
there was much work to do, and never attended indoor parties because
there was none. This inordinate taste for industry in connection with
social enjoyment on Tom's part was strongly encouraged by the other
young men, and they were the ones who always stipulated that he
should be of the party when there was likely to be any call for rowing,
taking care of horses, carrying of loads, putting out of croquet sets, or

other manual exertion. He was generally an odd one in such companies.
It would be no kindness to provide