III
That same evening, during a stolen moment while her mother was busied with the turning of the buckwheat cakes, Marjorie crept to her father's knee and folded her arms over it.
"Daddy!" she looked up at him from her seated posture on the floor. "What would you say to a very eligible young man who had told you that he was very fond of you?"
"What would I say?" asked the father in surprise.
"Yes. What would you?"
"I would not say anything. I would have him examined."
"No, Daddy. This is serious," and she pushed his knee from her as she spoke.
"I am serious. If a man told me that he was very fond of me, I would question his sanity."
She laughed.
"You know what I mean. I mean if you were a girl and——"
"But I am not a girl."
"Well, if you were?"
"If I was what?"
"You know what I mean quite well. Would you hate him at first?"
"I hope not. I should want to strangle him, but I wouldn't hate him."
"And you would strangle him? For what?"
"For daring."
"Daring what?"
"You know."
He smiled.
"Oh, dear! Won't you listen to me? Tell me what to do."
"I could not tell you. You have not told me what has happened."
"I asked you what you would say to an attractive soldier who had told you that he loved you."
"Yes. And I told you that if he had told that to me, I would ask what ailed him."
"Oh, Daddy, you are too funny tonight. I can't reason with you."
She sat back on her heels and pouted.
He smiled and roused himself upright and put his arm around her and drew her to him.
"There! There! I know what you mean, daughter. It means that I shall have no say in the matter."
"Why?"
"You will do it all."
"No. I shall never leave you."
"Yes, you will. You will be happier. But why didn't Stephen ask me about it?"
"How did you know it was Stephen?" she looked at him in astonishment.
"Well enough."
"But how?" she repeated.
"I knew it all the time and your mother and I have been prepared for this occasion."
"But who told you?" Her eyes opened full and round in genuine wonder. Here was one surprise after the other.
"There was no need of any one telling me. I have been watching the pair of you, and sensed what the outcome would be some little while ago."
"But, Daddy. How should you know?"
He laughed outright.
"There! There! We are satisfied quite, I can assure you. I know what you are about to say; and your mother knows it too."
"But I have not yet told her. I meant to tell her today but did not. Then I thought of telling you and of whispering the whole story to her after we were upstairs."
She was serious, very serious, absorbed for the most part in her story although her mind was clouded with amazement at the want of surprise which was manifested. Her innocent mind apparently was unable for the time being to fathom the intricacies of this plot which seemed to be laid bare to every one concerned save her own self.
"Of course you will tell her, but you will find that she will consent to the proposal."
"What proposal?"
"Why, I suppose the proposal of your coming marriage."
"But!... But!... Daddy!... I never said anything about marriage."
"You did start to tell me that Stephen told you he was very fond of you?"
"Yes."
"And you told him the same."
"No, I didn't."
"But you will tell him."
A hush followed. She looked askance at him from the corner of her eye.
"And so after you two have told one another as much as that you may as well decide upon the date."
"But ... I ... I am not sure that I want to marry him."
"Well, that is your privilege, you know."
"And.... And ... perhaps he will never ask me again."
"Just wait a bit."
"And would you marry him?"
"I told you that I would not. I already have one wife...."
"Oh! You make me lose all patience," she cried rising from the floor and leaving him. "I shall confide in mother."
"Remember," he cautioned her in a somewhat serious strain. "Do not ask her to marry him."
She was gone.
The following day a letter was dispatched to the Headquarters at Morristown, New Jersey. In the meantime a very large doubt began to take form in the mind of one little girl concerning the manner of its reception. A thousand and one impossible situations were conceived, but there seemed nothing to do; he must now do it all. The possibility loomed ghost-like before her: he might never return. The wound which she had caused still smarted and ached. He might never return. Her eyes wandered and strayed among the multitude of objects before them; her lips had forgotten their usual smile. He might fail to receive her note and if he did he might disdain to acknowledge it. But no! He would not do that. There was naught else to do but wait. Oh! if the moments would only hurry!