Verty smiled again:—­he seemed to know Mr. Rushton well.

“It is my nature to love it,” he said, “just as white people love books and papers.”

“What do you mean by white people?” growled Mr. Rushton, “you know very well that you are white.”

“I?” said Verty.

“Yes, sir; no affectation:  look in that mirror.”

Verty looked.

“What do you see!”

“An Indian!” said Verty, laughing, and raising his shaggy head.

“You see nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Rushton, with asperity; “you see simply a white boy tanned—­an Anglo-Saxon turned into mahogany by wind and sun.  There, sir! there,” added Mr. Rushton, seeing Verty was about to reply, “don’t argue the question with me.  I am sick of arguing, and won’t indulge you.  Take this fine little lady here, and go and make love to her—­the Squire and myself have business.”

Then Mr. Rushton scowled upon the company generally, and pushed them out of the room, so to speak, with his eyes; even Miss Lavinia was forced to obey, and disappeared.

Five minutes afterwards, Verty might have been seen taking his way back sadly, on his little animal, toward the hills, while Redbud was undergoing that most disagreeable of all ceremonies, a “lecture,” which lecture was delivered by Miss Lavinia, in her own private apartment, with a solemnity, which caused Redbud to class herself with the greatest criminals which the world had ever produced.  Miss Lavinia proved, conclusively, that all persons of the male sex were uninterruptedly engaged in endeavoring to espouse all persons of the female sex, and that the world, generally, was a vale of tears, of scheming and deception.  Having elevated and cheered Redbud’s spirits, by this profound philosophy, and further enlivened her by declaring that she must leave Apple Orchard on the morrow, Miss Lavinia descended.

She entered the dining-room where the Squire and Mr. Rushton were talking, and took her seat near the window.  Mr. Rushton immediately became dumb.

Miss Lavinia said it was a fine day.

Mr. Rushton growled.

Miss Lavinia made one or two additional attempts to direct the conversation on general topics; but the surly guest strangled her incipient attempts with pitiless indifference.  Finally, Miss Lavinia sailed out of the room with stately dignity, and disappeared.

Mr. Rushton looked after her, smiling grimly.

“The fact is, Squire,” he said, “that your cousin, Miss Lavinia, is a true woman.  Hang it, can’t a man come and talk a little business with a neighbor without being intruded upon?  Outrageous!”

The Squire seemed to regard his guest’s surliness with as little attention as Verty had displayed.

“A true woman in other ways is she, Rushton,” he said, smiling—­“I grant you she is a little severe and prim, and fond of taking her dignified portion of every conversation; but she’s a faithful and high-toned woman.  You have seen too much character in your Courts to judge of the kernel from the husk.”