“No?” she said, aloud, to the steadfast head.  “You won’t?  What a mistake to be made of cast-iron!” She smiled and nodded to a clump of lilac-bushes near a cedar-tree, and to nothing else—­so far as Eugene and Mamie could see,—­then walked thoughtfully to the steps.

“Who in the world were you speaking to?” asked Mamie, curiously.

“That deer.”

“But you bowed to some one.”

“Oh, that,” Ariel lifted her eyebrows,—­“that was your father.  Didn’t you see him?”

“No.”

“I believe you can’t from here, after all,” said Ariel, slowly.  “He is sitting upon a rustic bench between the bushes and the cedar-tree, quite near the gate.  No, you couldn’t see him from here; you’d have to go as far as the deer, at least, and even then you might not notice him, unless you looked for him.  He has a book—­a Bible, I think—­ but I don’t think he is reading.”

“He usually takes a nap on Sunday afternoons,” said Mamie.

“I don’t think he will, to-day.”  Ariel looked at Eugene, who avoided her clear gaze.  “He has the air of having settled himself to stay for a long time, perhaps until evening.”

She had put on her hat after dinner, and Mamie now inquired if she would not prefer to remove it, offering to carry it in-doors for her, to Ariel’s room, to insure its safety.  “You look so sort of temporary, wearing it,” she urged, “as if you were only here for a little while.  It’s the loveliest hat I ever saw, and so fragile, too, but I’ll take care—­”

Ariel laughed, leaned over, and touched the other’s hand lightly.  “It isn’t that, dear.”

“What is it, then?” Mamie beamed out into a joyful smile.  She had felt sure that she could not understand Ariel; was, indeed, afraid of her; and she found herself astonishingly pleased to be called “dear,” and delighted with the little familiarity of the hand-tap.  Her feeling toward the visitor (who was, so her father had announced, to become a permanent member of the household) had been, until now, undefined.  She had been on her guard, watching for some sign of conscious “superiority” in this lady who had been so long over-seas, not knowing what to make of her; though thrown, by the contents of her trunks, into a wistfulness which would have had something of rapture in it had she been sure that she was going to like Ariel.  She had gone to the latter’s room before church, and had perceived uneasily that it had become, even by the process of unpacking, the prettiest room she had ever seen.  Mrs. Warden, wife of Sam, and handmaiden of the mansion, was assisting, alternately faint and vociferous with marvelling.  Mamie feared that Ariel might be a little overpowering.

With the word “dear” (that is, of course, with the way it was spoken), and with the touch upon the hand, it was all suddenly settled; she would not understand Ariel always—­that was clear—­but they would like each other.