An equally unexpected confidence, however, took its place. Mr. Carr
having finished his coffee one morning, lingered a moment over his
perfunctory paternal embraces, with the awkwardness of a preoccupied
man endeavoring by the assumption of a lighter interest to veil another
abstraction.

"And what are we doing to-day, Christie?" he asked, as Jessie left the
dining-room.

"Oh, pretty much the usual thing--nothing in particular. If George
Kearney gets the horses from the summit, we're going to ride over to
Indian Spring to picnic. Fairfax--Mr. Munroe--I always forget that man's
real name in this dreadfully familiar country--well, he's coming to
escort us, and take me, I suppose--that is, if Kearney takes Jessie."

"A very nice arrangement," returned her father, with a slight nervous
contraction of the corners of his mouth and eyelids to indicate
mischievousness. "I've no doubt they'll both be here. You know they
usually are--ha! ha! And what about the two Mattinglys and Philip
Kearney, eh?" he continued; "won't they be jealous?"

"It isn't their turn," said Christie carelessly; "besides, they'll
probably be there."

"And I suppose they're beginning to be resigned," said Carr, smiling.

"What on earth are you talking of, father?"

She turned her clear brown eyes upon him, and was regarding him with
such manifest unconsciousness of the drift of his speech, and, withal,