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Updated: June 18, 2025
She stretched out a slim brown hand. "You will find me very difficult sometimes, I warn you now." "I like difficult things, they seem to come my way." The languid hours sped by. Clark swam, fished, paddled with the girl, entertained her party in the tug's white painted saloon, and chatted with Mrs. Dibbott, the chaperon, about St. Marys. But most of all he explored the mind of Elsie Worden.
He thought rather compassionately of Worden, Dibbott and the rest, good natured but thick headed. What a surprise it would be for them. But not once did Manson imagine that he was trading peace for anxiety, and the even tenor of his former ways for the hectic restlessness of the speculator.
There fell a little silence, while, to the rest came the picture of this wise man and true, cruising in storm and sunshine through the myriad islands of his diocese, with his good cheer and his understanding heart and his great tenderness for all living beings. "May I make you a flag?" said Mrs. Dibbott presently. "Splendid, I haven't one. You might put on my crest.
"Haven't seen or heard of him for three days," answered the lawyer shortly then, because he wanted to avoid being pumped, "good night I'm for my blameless couch." They looked after him and at each other. "Seen Belding?" asked Dibbott of the judge. "No, he's down in Chicago. I think he's buying machinery. Now it's late and if I don't go home too, I'll get into trouble."
Dibbott, tall, slim, and square shouldered, turned her kindly capable face toward Clark, and felt the first intimation of that keen interest he always roused, especially in the women who met him. He seemed so alert, such a free agent and, it must be confessed, so disgracefully independent of the gentler sex.
Now, since the citizens of St. Marys were, without their knowledge, about to enter upon a period of great importance, glance at Dibbott, not the least of them, as his small, blue eyes caught the approaching figure of the mayor. Six feet when he straightened, his shoulders were bent, but still broad and strong.
Up the uneven plank walk he went, noting with a swift, sidelong glance the neat white house of Dibbott, the Indian agent, a house that thrust its snowy, wooden walls and luxuriant little garden close up to the street. On his left, still further west, was the home of Worden, the local magistrate. This was a comfortable old place by the river, with a neglected field between it and the highway.
Filmer drew a long breath. "Looks to me as if he would rope himself in the way he is going. He won't need any help from us." "What did you make of him personally?" "I didn't get very far," said Filmer deliberately, "except that he struck me as the sort of man who gets things done. Look here, I've seen Dibbott and Worden and Manson. Will you go and see the Bishop and ask him to come to-night?"
All this time the visitor sat still, a satisfied light in his eyes, and when Dibbott and the rest asked to be introduced, the mayor exclaimed that the speaker of the evening was so occupied with momentous matters that he was obliged to postpone the pleasure of meeting them for a day or two. This, of course, added to the spell of fascination cast by the remarkable stranger.
They are my own berries, and the cream, Mr. Filmer, is the product of that excellent yearling you were kind enough to send me last summer." They moved into the study and were presently joined by Mrs. Dibbott and Mrs. Worden. "We have seen the yacht," said the latter enthusiastically, "and she is lovely, but how do you pronounce her name?"
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