"But, to
tell the truth, I should feel it as impertinent of me to
criticise Cousin Godfrey's person as to pass an opinion on one of
the books he reads. I can not express the reverence I have for
Cousin Godfrey."
"I don't wonder," replied Mary. "There is that about him one
could trust."
"There is that about him," returned Letty, "makes me afraid of
him--I can not tell why. And yet, though everybody, even his
mother, is as anxious to please him as if he were an emperor, he
is the easiest person to please in the whole house. Not that he
tells you he is pleased; he only smiles; but that is quite
enough."
"But I suppose he talks to you sometimes?" said Mary.
"Oh, yes--now. He used not; but I think he does now more than to
anybody else. It was a long time before he began, though. Now he
is always giving me something to read. I wish he wouldn't; it
frightens me dreadfully. He always questions me, to know whether
I understand what I read."
Letty ended with a little cry. Through the one narrow gap in the
yew hedge, near to the arbor, Godfrey had entered the walk, and
was coming toward them.
He was a well-made man, thirty years of age, rather tall, sun-
tanned, and bearded, with wavy brown hair, and gentle approach.
His features were not regular, but that is of little consequence
where there is unity. His face indicated faculty and feeling, and
there was much good nature, shadowed with memorial suffering, in
the eyes which shone so blue out of the brown.
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