A Colonial Wooing
John went to the shop door and called his partner, who had been busy out of doors at John's suggestion, and was all-impatiently waiting to be recalled.
The interview was not a satisfactory one. Matthew Watson saw defiance in John's eyes, if he could not discover it in his words, and stood gazing intently into the ashen coals that had nearly lost their ruddy glow. There was so much he would like to say, but he felt that he was watched by a determined man, who would check at its very outset any further attempt to speak. Matthew Watson, one of the community's petty tyrants, and a most prominent figure in meeting, had met his match.
"William," remarked John, as that young man entered the shop, "had we not better finish Stacy's cart-wheel? He may call for it to-morrow."
"Yes, John—Good-morning, Friend Watson. How is Ruth to-day? I do hope she is none the worse for her terrible fright." And William hovered about him as though he were the king and he an expectant subject.
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