The door opened once more. A young lady quietly joined the party at the
supper-table.

Was the young lady Naomi Colebrook? I looked at Ambrose, and saw the
answer in his face. Naomi Colebrook at last!

A pretty girl, and, so far as I could judge by appearances, a good girl
too. Describing her generally, I may say that she had a small head,
well carried, and well set on her shoulders; bright gray eyes, that
looked at you honestly, and meant what they looked; a trim, slight
little figure--too slight for our English notions of beauty; a strong
American accent; and (a rare thing in America) a pleasantly toned
voice, which made the accent agreeable to English ears. Our first
impressions of people are, in nine cases out of ten, the right
impressions. I liked Naomi Colebrook at first sight; liked her pleasant
smile; liked her hearty shake of the hand when we were presented to
each other. "If I get on well with nobody else in this house," I
thought to myself, "I shall certainly get on well with _you_."

For once in a way, I proved a true prophet. In the atmosphere of
smoldering enmities at Morwick Farm, the pretty American girl and I
remained firm and true friends from first to last. Ambrose made room
for Naomi to sit between his brother and himself. She changed color for
a moment, and looked at him, with a pretty, reluctant tenderness, as
she took her chair. I strongly suspected the young farmer of squeezing
her hand privately, under cover of the tablecloth.

The supper was not a merry one. The only cheerful conversation was the
conversation across the table between Naomi and me.