Naomi Colebrook, Ambrose held to that
one topic and talked on it without intermission. It required no great
gift of penetration to discover the impression which the American
cousin had produced in this case. The young fellow's enthusiasm
communicated itself, in a certain tepid degree, to me. I really felt a
mild flutter of anticipation at the prospect of seeing Naomi, when we
drew up, toward the close of evening, at the gates of Morwick Farm.

CHAPTER II. THE NEW FACES.

IMMEDIATELY on my arrival, I was presented to Mr. Meadowcroft, the
father.

The old man had become a confirmed invalid, confined by chronic
rheumatism to his chair. He received me kindly, and a little wearily as
well. His only unmarried daughter (he had long since been left a
widower) was in the room, in attendance on her father. She was a
melancholy, middle-aged woman, without visible attractions of any
sort--one of those persons who appear to accept the obligation of
living under protest, as a burden which they would never have consented
to bear if they had only been consulted first. We three had a dreary
little interview in a parlor of bare walls; and then I was permitted to
go upstairs, and unpack my portmanteau in my own room.

"Supper will be at nine o'clock, sir," said Miss Meadowcroft.

She pronounced those words as if "supper" was a form of domestic
offense, habitually committed by the men, and endured by the women. I
followed the groom up to my room, not over-well pleased with my first
experience of the farm.

No Naomi and no romance, thus far!

My room was clean--oppressively clean. I quite longed to see a little
dust somewhere. My library was limited to the Bible and the
Prayer-book. My view from the window showed me a dead flat in a partial
state of cultivation, fading sadly from view in the waning light. Above
the head of my spruce white bed hung a scroll, bearing a damnatory
quotation from Scripture in emblazoned letters of red and black. The
dismal presence of Miss Meadowcroft had passed over my bedroom, and had
blighted it. My spirits sank as I looked round me. Supper-time was
still an event in the future. I lighted the candles and took from my
portmanteau what I firmly believe to have been the first French novel
ever produced at Morwick Farm. It was one of the masterly and charming
stories of Dumas the elder. In five minutes I was in a new world, and
my melancholy room was full of the liveliest French company. The sound
of