There was in Crawfordsville, upon a pleasant, shady avenue, a little
vine-covered cottage belonging to Bat Truxton, and thither the big
wagon conveyed him, his scornful daughter, and his few household
effects. And there shortly after twilight upon the third day after the
closing of school in Valley City Mr. Roger Hapgood, sartorially
immaculate in shining raiment, glorious as to tie and silken socks,
presented himself.
Miss Jocelyn Truxton, a big, yellow-hearted rose peeping forth at him
from a carefully careless profusion of brown hair, came out upon the
porch at his knock, smiled at him saucily, and offered him her hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Hapgood? We didn't expect you again so soon. I
thought that maybe you had forgotten us." And then, blushing prettily
over the hand which Mr. Hapgood was still holding ardently in his,
"Won't you come in?"
Mr. Hapgood, having assured her that he should forget all else in the
world before he forgot her, called her attention to the fact that it
was a deucedly fine evening, and that it would be too bad to lose any
of it by going into the house. His smile and eloquent eyes pointed out
that there was a not uncomfortable rustic bench, large enough to
accommodate two nicely, at the cozy, vine-sheltered end of the porch.
"And how is Mr. Truxton?" he asked, his tone gently solicitous, when
they were seated.
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