“That is not surprising,” he returned. “I am a painter, and you met me at the artists’ reception. My name is Allan Thorpe.”
“Allan Thorpe!” repeated Mabel with a glow of pleasure. “Yes, I remember, you painted that beautiful ‘Sunset in Bethlehem.'”
“Do you remember it?” asked the artist in gratified surprise.
“It was one of the pictures I liked best. I remember you too, Mr. Thorpe.”
“I am very glad to her it, Miss — ”
“Frost,” prompted Mabel, holding up her finger.
“I will try to remember.”
“Are you spending the summer in Granville, Mr. Thorpe?”
“Yes,” replied Allan unhesitatingly. He had just made up his mind.
“Are you engaged upon any new work?”
“Not yet. I have been painting busily during the spring, and am idling for a time. You see how profitably I have been employed today,” and he pointed to his fishing rod. “I hope to get at something by and by. May I ask where you are boarding?”
“At Mrs. Kent’s.”
“I congratulate you, for I know her. I am at the hotel and am sometimes solitary. May I venture to call upon you?”
“If you call upon your friend, Mrs. Kent, you will probably see me,” said Mabel, smiling.
“Then I shall certainly call upon Mrs. Kent,” said the young man, lifting his hat respectfully.
“Please bear in mind my change of name, Mr. Thorpe.”
“You shall be obeyed.”
“How much she is improved by adversity,” thought the young man, as he sauntered towards the hotel. “I can hardly realize the change. The society belle has become a staid — no, not staid, but hard working country school mistress, and takes’ the change gayly and cheerfully. I thought her beautiful when I saw her in New York. Now she is charming.”
What were Mabel’s reflections?
“He is certainly very handsome and very manly,” she said to herself. “He has genius, too. I remember that painting of his. He thinks me poor, and I felt like a humbug when he was admiring me for my resignation to circumstances. If it were as he thinks, I think I might find a friend in him.”
“I just met an old acquaintance, Mrs. Kent,” she said on entering the house.
“Is he staying here?” asked the widow.
“Yes, for a time. He tells me he knows you.”
“Who can it be?” asked Mrs. Kent with interest.
“A young artist — Allan Thorpe,” replied Mabel.
“He is a fine young man,” said Mrs. Kent warmly.
“His appearance is in his favor.”
“You know, I suppose, that he is Mrs. Wilson’s nephew?”
“No,” said Mabel with surprise.
“His mother, who died last year, was Mrs. Wilson’s sister. He was a good son to her. A year before her death a wealthy friend offered to defray his expenses for twelve months in Italy, but he refused for her sake, though it has always been his dearest wish to go.”
“No wonder you praise him. He deserves it,” said Mabel warmly.
Chapter 9
Three months before, a new minister had been appointed to take charge of the Methodist Society in Granville. The Rev. Adoniram Fry, in spite of an unprepossessing name, was a man of liberal mind and genial temper, who could neither originate nor keep up a quarrel. In consequence the relations between the two parishes became much more friendly. Mr. Fry took the initiative in calling upon Mr. Wilson.
“Brother Wilson,” he said cordially, “we are both laborers in the Lord’s vineyard. Is there any reason why we should stand apart?”
“None whatever, Brother Fry, said the other clergyman, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Let us be friends.”
“Agreed. If we set the example we can draw our people together. How is it that they have been estranged in years past?”
“I can hardly tell you. Probably there has been fault on both sides.”
The two pastors had a pleasant chat, and walked together down the village street, attracting considerable attention. Some were pleased, others seemed undecided how to regard the new alliance, while Deacon Uriah Peabody openly disapproved.
“I don’t believe in countenancin’ error,” said he, shaking his head. “We should be stern and uncompromisin’ in upholding the right.”