riage, Mr. Lefrank. He is not well; he has come over the ocean for
rest, and change of scene. Mr. Jago is an American, Philip. I hope you
have no prejudice against Americans. Make acquaintance with Mr. Jago.
Sit together." He cast another dark look at his sons; and the sons
again returned it. They pointedly drew back from John Jago as he
approached the empty chair next to me and moved round to the opposite
side of the table. It was plain that the man with the beard stood high
in the father's favor, and that he was cordially disliked for that or
for some other reason by the sons.

The door opened once more. A young lady quietly joined the party at the
supper-table.

Was the young lady Naomi Colebrook? I looked at Ambrose, and saw the
answer in his face. Naomi Colebrook at last!

A pretty girl, and, so far as I could judge by appearances, a good girl
too. Describing her generally, I may say that she had a small head,
well carried, and well set on her shoulders; bright gray eyes, that
looked at you honestly, and meant what they looked; a trim, slight
little figure--too slight for our English notions of beauty; a strong
American accent; and (a rare thing in America) a pleasantly toned
voice, which made the accent agreeable to English ears. Our first
impressions of people are, in nine cases out of ten, the right
impressions. I liked Naomi Colebrook at first sight; liked her pleasant
smile; liked her hearty shake of the hand when we were presented to
each other. "If I get on well with nobody else in this house," I
thought to myself, "I shall certainly get on well with _you_."

For once in a way, I proved a true prophet. In the atmosphere of
smoldering enmities at Morwick Farm, the pretty American girl and I
remained firm and true friends from first to last. Ambrose made room
for Naomi to sit between his brother and himself. She changed color for
a moment, and looked at him, with a pretty, reluctant tenderness, as
she took her chair. I strongly suspected the young farmer of squeezing
her hand privately, under cover of the tablecloth.

The supper was not a merry one. The only cheerful conversation was the
conversation across the table between Naomi and me.

For some incomprehensible reason, John Jago seemed to be ill at ease in
the presence of his young countrywoman. He looked up at Naomi
doubtingly from his plate, and looked down again slowly with a frown.
When I addressed him, he answered constrainedly. Even when he spo