"
"What kind of a man?" said Mrs. Chauncey; — "a gentleman?"
"Oh, yes, Ma'am!" said Ellen, looking surprised at the
question. "I am sure he was."
"What did he look like?"
Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct.
"What did he wear? Coat or cloak?"
"Coat — dark brown, I think."
"This was the end of October, wasn't it?"
Ellen thought a moment and answered, "yes."
"And you don't know his name?"
"No, Ma'am; I wish I did."
"I can tell you," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; — "he is one of
my best friends, too, Ellen; it is my brother, Mr. George
Marshman."
How Ellen's face crimsoned! Mr. Marshman asked how she knew.
"It was then he came up the river, you know, Sir; and don't
you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat,
who was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavoured to
befriend? I had forgotten it entirely till a minute or two
ago."
"Miss Margaret Dunscombe!" cried George Walsh, "what kind of a
person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up
the river?"
"I don't know, nor care," said Margaret. "Somebody she picked
up somewhere."
"It was Mr. George Marshman!"
"It wasn't."
"Uncle George!" exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the
group her cousin had quitted; — "_my_ uncle George? Do you know
uncle George, Ellen?"
"Very much — I mean — yes," said Ellen.
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