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By the end of a week his observations were completed, and Kate Nugent,
securely enthroned in his mind as the incarnation of feminine grace and
beauty, left but little room for other matters. On his second Sunday at
home, to his father's great surprise, he attended church, and after
contemplating Miss Nugent's back hair for an hour and a half came home
and spoke eloquently and nobly on "burying hatchets," "healing old
sores," "letting bygones be bygones," and kindred topics.
"I never take much notice of sermons myself," said the captain,
misunderstanding.
"Sermon?" said his son. "I wasn't thinking of the sermon, but I saw
Captain Nugent there, and I remembered the stupid quarrel between you.
It's absurd that it should go on indefinitely."
"Why, what does it matter?" inquired the other, staring. "Why shouldn't
it? Perhaps it's the music that's affected you; some of those old
hymns--"
"It wasn't the sermon and it wasn't the hymns," said his son,
disdainfully; "it's just common sense. It seems to me that the enmity
between you has lasted long enough."
"I don't see that it matters," said the captain; "it doesn't hurt me.
Nugent goes his way and I go mine, but if I ever get a chance at the old
man, he'd better look out. He wants a little of the starch taken out of
him.
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