Sophie was not of a nervous temperament; indeed, for her eighteen
years, was apparently a little too cool and methodical; and she
was not flurried that evening over the delay in the arrival home
of Reuben Pemberthy. She was not imaginative like her mother, and
did not associate delay with the dangers of a dark night, though
the nights _were_ full of danger in the good old times of the
third George. She went to the door to look out, after her mother had
tripped there for the seventh or eighth time, not for appearances'
sake, for she was above that, but to keep her mother company, and
to suggest that these frequent excursions to the front door would
end in a bad cold.

"I can't help fearing that something has happened to Reu," said
the mother; "he is always so true to time."

"There are so many things to keep a man late, mother."

"Not to keep Reuben. If he said what hour he'd be back--he 's like
his father, my poor brother--he'd do it to the minute, even if
there weren't any reason for his hurry."

"Which there is," said Sophie, archly.

"Which there is, Sophie. And why you are so quiet over this I don't
know. I am sure when poor Mr. Tarne was out late--and he was often
very, very late, and the Lord knows where he'd been, either!--I
couldn't keep a limb of me still till he came home again. I was
as bad as your aunt indoors there till I was sure he was safe and
sound."