Louis Moore laughed.
"To marry a White Cloud or a Big Buffalo; and after wedlock to devote yourself to the tender task of digging your lord's maize-field, while he smokes his pipe or drinks fire-water."
Shirley seemed about to reply, but here the school-room door unclosed, admitting Mr. Sympson. That personage stood aghast when he saw the group around the fire.
"I thought you alone, Miss Keeldar," he said. "I find quite a party."
And evidently from his shocked, scandalized air—had he not recognised in one of the party, a clergy-man—he would have delivered an extempore philippic on the extraordinary habits of his niece: respect for the cloth arrested him.
"I merely wished to announce," he proceeded, coldly, "that the family from De Walden Hall, Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and Mr. Sam Wynne are in the drawing-room." And he bowed, and withdrew.
"The family from De Walden Hall! Couldn't be a worse set," murmured Shirley.
She sat still, looking a little contumacious, and very much indisposed to stir. She was flushed with the fire; her dark hair had been more than once dishevelled by the morning wind that day; her attire was a light, neatly fitting, but amply flowing dress of muslin; the shawl she had worn in the garden was still draped in a careless fold round her. Indolent, wilful, picturesque, and singularly pretty was her
