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"Most girls go through with it safely; but I well I was the simple sprat that was caught! "He was returning to Millerton after a long absence," she went on; "his people were well known there. He appeared to be perfectly mad about me; and my poor little head was quite turned.
I wanted him to come up; but he said he guessed you would want me to yourself for a while. Gee! I must be hustling! Train goes at six-thirty!" "But where are you going?" she asked in dismay. Charley kissed her. "East to Millerton, to the wedding, of course! Back in two weeks! Oh, what larks! What do you think! I'm going to be best man. Garth is getting me a silk tile and a frock coat! Oh, Crikey!
He brought us over the range, through the snow and over the bleak ridges, in the month of December, 1849, and we made our first camp at an Indian village in Tulare Valley, a few miles south of where Porterville now stands. From this Indian village we walked on until we arrived at the present site of Millerton on the south bank of the San Joaquin River.
The following day, at nine o'clock, the big "Layton" car, resplendent in a recent coat of paint, well shod, and perfectly equipped, started from the house on the long journey to Millerton. Denis Quirk was at the wheel, the chauffeur beside him. In the tonneau Molly Healy and Desmond O'Connor kept up a crossfire of good-humoured raillery, while Kathleen sat between them, smiling at their jests.
"My husband, Canon Mabyn, was the rector of Christ's Church Cathedral in Millerton, Ontario, up to the time of his death," murmured Mrs. Mabyn in her dulcet tones, with the air of one delivering all-sufficient credentials. Garth murmured to show that he was suitably impressed. "You are from New York, I believe," said Mrs. Mabyn. Garth acknowledged the fact. "So the newspaper said," she remarked.
"Of course I do not count all the dear, foolish boys before that they say in Millerton that the boys attach themselves to me to finish their education but that's all foolishness. I'm so very fond of boys! I could laugh and hug them all! They're so so theatrical! But the man was different; he was fifteen years older than I; and alas! another ne'er-do-weel!
Now that he had confided in her, she wished to hear more. "A priest?" she asked him. "The Bishop. I wish you knew him." "I do," she answered. "We have a Bishop like that." "Then I must know him. Will you take me to him and introduce me?" "It is a long journey from Grey Town to Millerton," she answered laughingly. "Nothing to a motor on a fine day and good roads.
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