The sight of an honest weed would have been a
relief to the eye. The curse of too much gardener and too little nature
lay over the land.
"Ah!" said Mr. Wade, holding out a large white hand. "You perceive me
inspecting the garden, and if you glance in the direction of
McPherson's cottage you will perceive McPherson watching me. I pay him
a hundred and twenty and he knows that it is too much."
"By the way, papa," put in Marguerite, gravely, "will you tell
McPherson that he will receive a month's notice if he counts the
peaches this summer, as he did last year?"
Mr. Wade laughed, and promised her a freer hand in this matter. They
walked in the trim garden until it was time to dress for dinner, and
Cornish saw enough to convince him that Mr. Wade was fully occupied
between banking hours in his capacity as Marguerite's father.
That young lady came down as the bell rang, in a white dress as fresh
and girlish as herself, and during the meal, which was long and
somewhat solemn, entertained the guest with considerable liveliness. It
was only after she had left them to their wine, over which the banker
loved to linger in the old-fashioned way that Mr. Wade put on his grave
financial air. He fingered his glass thoughtfully, as if choosing, not
a subject of conversation, but a suitable way of approaching a
premeditated question.
"You do not recollect your mother?" he said suddenly.
"No; she died when I was two years old.
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