"Oh, I don't know," replied the young man. "He was awfully surprised. I've had jollier home-comings." He looked searchingly at Grace, but she avoided his eyes, and, pulling a hip of the brier near her, had her finger pierced by a thorn.
"Silly girl," said her father, taking out a large, tobacco-smelling handkerchief and enfolding in it the bleeding finger.
"Miss Grace believes in grasping the thorn," said Edmund. "As for me, I dread everything unpleasant. Hips and haws may flourish unhurt for all of me, as long as they've thorns to protect 'em."
"Have you met your brother's wife?" asked Mr. Jerrold.
"Just for a moment. My God, isn't this an awful marriage? I was stunned when I heard of it. Just think, he never mentioned it when he wrote! But I knew there was something wrong—I thought of something quite different." He looked hard at Grace, and she met his eyes with a troubled smile.
"Come over, Captain Vale," said Mr. Jerrold, "and talk to my daughter. Tell her some enlivening doings of Halifax. She needs cheering up. I'll take Darby home." He felt that Edmund wanted to see Grace alone.
"Why do you need cheering?" His tone was almost accusing, though with an assumed lightness.
"Life cannot be always smooth for anyone, can it?"
"It should be for you."
"I expect my share of trouble like others but, really—it is over others that I worry."
"You make me very envious."
"Why?"
"Well, I don't believe you'd worry much if I were to marry an Indian."
