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Updated: June 29, 2025
Sclater, slowly recovering his breath: he was not yet quite sure of Gibbie, or confident how best he was to be managed; "this young gentleman is Sir Gilbert Galbraith, my ward. Sir Gilbert, this lady is Miss Kimble. You must have known her father well the Rev. Matthew Kimble of the next parish to your own?" Gibbie smiled.
She wasn't entirely clear in her mind as to just what steps this preparation should consist in, but the fact that Galbraith had once asked to see her sketches and had seemed amazed to learn that she hadn't any, gave her the hint that she might do well to learn to draw.
But Rose went on dressing as fast as she could all the while, and at last, long before Olga had begun putting on her street clothes, she was ready to go. With her hand on the door-latch she paused. "I am going to have supper with Mr. Galbraith," she said. "He told me there was something he wanted to talk to me about."
As they hoped that Alec Galbraith would not be long absent, wishing to give him a pleasant surprise, they had gone on with the erection of his house, and completed it, declaring that as their reward they would sell their property, for which they had had several advantageous offers, and go and live with him till they should fix on another location further off in the wilderness, to bring under cultivation.
One enthusiastic admirer of this youth said, in Jen's hearing, "He's a Christian Val Galbraith!" That was the western way of announcing a man as having great civic and social virtues. Perhaps the respect for Val Galbraith was deepened by the fact that there was no broncho or cayuse that he could not tame to the saddle.
At the same time Mrs. Sclater had a sacred suspicion that no real ill would ever befall God's innocent, Gilbert Galbraith. Fergus had now with his father's help established himself in the manse of the North Church, and thither he invited Mr. and Miss Galbraith to dine with him on a certain evening.
In spite of a certain reasonableness in the pessimist's logic; in spite of circumstances he was incapable of explaining; in spite, even, of Cynthia Galbraith, a latent belief in Robert Morton's integrity crystallized into certainty, and he rose to his feet freed of the doubts that had previously assailed him. At the instant of this emancipation the young man himself entered.
I've teased Marie to death over this thing, and she can't think who you can be, unless you're a Miss Galbraith. You're not, are you?" "Gracious, no! I'm not Mona Galbraith!" "I knew you weren't; Marie says SHE can't sing. Oh, dear, you're a perfect torment! Pretty princess, pretty Princess Poppy-cheek, WON'T you take pity on your humble slave and adorer, and tell me your name?"
But Rose didn't avail herself of her dismissal remained hanging about, a couple of paces away from where Galbraith was talking to Mrs. Goldsmith. The only question that remained, he was telling her, was whether her selections were not too well, too refined, genteel, one might say, for the stage. Regretfully he confessed he was a little afraid they were.
"It isn't for me," said Rose. "It's for Olga Larson to wear in that All Alone number for the sextette." "Why Larson especially?" he asked. "Except that she's a friend of yours." "She isn't," said Rose, "particularly. And anyway, that wouldn't be a reason. But did you ever really look at her? She's the one really beautiful woman in the company." "Larson?" said John Galbraith incredulously.
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