Vaughan."
"And you're a heartless Puritan," he answered with a frown.
She shook her golden brown curls:
"No--no--no! My name's an accident. My father was born in Maine on the
Canada line. But my mother was French. I'm her daughter. I love sunlight
and flowers, music and foolishness--and dream of troubadours who sing
under my window. I hate long faces and gloom. But my father has
ambition. I love him, and so I endure things."
Ned Vaughan looked at her timidly. For the life of him he couldn't make
her out. Was she laughing at him? He half suspected it, and yet there
was something sweet and appealing in the way she gazed into his eyes. He
gave it up and changed the subject.
He had promised to bring John to-day and introduce him. He had been
prattling like a fool about this older brother. He wished to God now
something would keep him. The pangs of jealousy had already began to
gnaw at the thought of her hand resting in his.
From the way Betty Winter had laughed she was quite capable of flying
two strings to her bow. And with all the keener interest because
they happened to be brothers. Why had she asked him so pointedly
about John? He had excited her curiosity, of course, by his silly
brother--hero-worship. He had told her of his brilliant career in New
York under Horace Greeley on the _Tribune_--of Greeley's personal
interest, and the flattering letter he had written to Colonel Forney,
which had made him the city editor of the New Party organ in
Washington--of his cool heroism the night the mob had attacked the
_Republican_ office--and last he had hinted of an affair over a woman in
New York that had led to a challenge and a bloodless duel--bloodless
because his opponent failed to appear.
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