Plausaby, Esq., was ever prompt in dealing with those to whom he was indebted, so far as promises went.  He would always give the most solemn assurance of his readiness to do anything one wished to have done; and so, when Albert explained to him that it was necessary for him to pre-empt because he wished to go East, Plausaby told him to go on and establish his residence on his claim, and when he got ready to prove up and pre-empt, to come to him.  To come and let him know.  To let him know at once.  He made the promise so frankly and so repetitiously, and with such evident consciousness of his own ability and readiness to meet his debt to Albert on demand, that the latter went away to his claim in quietness and hopefulness, relying on Miss Marlay to stand guard over his sister’s love affairs in his absence.

But standing guard was not of much avail.  All of the currents that flowed about Katy’s life were undermining her resolution not to see Smith Westcott.  Katy, loving, sweet, tenderhearted, was far from being a martyr, in stubbornness at best; her resolutions were not worth much against her sympathies.  And now that Albert’s scratched face was out of sight, and there was no visible object to keep alive her indignation, she felt her heart full of ruth for poor, dear Mr. Westcott.  How lonesome he must be without her!  She could only measure his lonesomeness by her own.  Her heart, ever eager to love, could not let go when once it had attached itself, and she longed for other evenings in which she could hear Smith’s rattling talk, and in which he would tell her how happy she had made him.  How lonesome he must be!  What if he should drown himself in the lake?

Mr. Plausaby, at tea, would tell in the most incidental way of something that had happened during the day, and then, in his sliding, slipping, repetitious, back-stitching fashion, would move round from one indifferent topic to another until he managed at last to stumble over Smith Westcott’s name.

“By the way,” he would say, “poor Smith looks heartbroken.  Absolutely heart-broken.  I didn’t know the fellow cared so much for Katy.  Didn’t think he had so much heart.  So much faithfulness.  But he looks down.  Very much downcast.  Never saw a fellow look so chopfallen.  And, by the way, Albert did punish him awfully.  He looks black and blue.  Well, he deserved it.  He did so.  I suppose he didn’t mean to say anything against Katy.  But he had no business to let old friends coax him to drink.  Still, Albert was pretty severe.  Too severe, in fact.  I’m sorry for Westcott.  I am, indeed.”

After some such talk as this, Cousin Isa would generally find Katy crying before bed-time.

“What is the matter, Katy, dear?” she would say in a voice so full of natural melody and genuine sympathy, that it never failed to move Katy to the depths of her heart.  Then Katy would cry more than ever, and fling her arms about the neck of dear, dear, dear Cousin Isa, and lavish on her the tenderness of which her heart was full.