As for Delavan, he did not know anything about Dr. Ware’s sentiments on that burning question. The subject had not been mentioned during their conversations on the boat and since his arrival in the afternoon he had seen but little of his host. Mrs. Ware, with her delight at his coming and her talk about his mother and their girlhood days, and Rhoda’s presence, had engrossed his attention. Moreover, Charlotte’s performance, upon which he and Dr. Ware had unexpectedly come, had been misleading to whatever thought he had given to the matter. And that young lady was about to make deeper the impression. Seated on the veranda steps she lamented her mistake in going to the meeting. “There was no fun at all,” she declared. “It was as orderly and quiet as a funeral. I wish it had been old Sumner’s funeral! And how they did talk about ‘Bully Brooks’!” She caught up the kitten, which at the sound of her voice had come purring against her skirts, and exclaimed: “Prince of Walesy, you’ve got to have your name changed! You’re going to be ‘Bully Brooks’ after this! Because he’s the best man out!” “Good for you, Miss Charlotte! You’re a girl after my own heart!” Delavan heartily approved. They were alone on the veranda, Dr. Ware having hurried to his office, where a patient was waiting. At that moment Mrs. Ware and Rhoda returned, with cool drinks, and the talk turned to other subjects. But Delavan had gained a distinct impression that Dr. Ware’s family was pro-slavery in sentiment. Later in the evening, when Rhoda went into her sister’s bedroom to say good-night, she found Charlotte sitting before a mirror with their mother’s miniature, carefully comparing it with her own reflection. “Come here, Rhoda,” she said, “and see how much this looks like me!” Rhoda bent over her shoulder. The girl had arranged her hair like that in the picture, and the resemblance was striking. “I know,” said Rhoda. “I noticed it at once, but your hair this way makes it plainer. You must look very much like mother did when she was your age--when they were married.” Charlotte cast a glance back into the other’s face. “Yes,” she said, “I must be the image of her. That’s why father loves me so much more than he does you.” Rhoda turned sharply away. “Sister! He doesn’t! We are both his daughters, and he loves us both.” “Of course he does,” Charlotte replied calmly. “But he loves me a great deal more than he does you.” And in her secret heart Rhoda knew that her sister spoke the truth. CHAPTER V Never had Dr. Ware been more surprised than he was when Jefferson Delavan came to him the next morning and said, without preliminary: “I wish to tell you, Dr. Ware, sir, that I love your daughter, Miss Rhoda, and desire to make her my wife.” For a moment he gazed in speechless astonishment. “It seems to me, Mr. Delavan,” he presently found tongue to say, “that you are being rather precipitate. Have you spoken to Rhoda?”