“And after you had recovered from your fainting spell, what happened?”
“Oh—I helped the doctor and we pulled Julian through together somehow. And then I went to work. He was ill all winter—something had to be done—I sing fairly well——”
“I remember now,” broke in Miss Arbuthnot. “You used to sing at College Vespers. I liked your voice.”
The girl gave a gasp of pleasure. She felt immensely flattered that Professor Arbuthnot had liked to hear her sing.
“Thank you,” she said feelingly. “I got a position in a church choir and I went into town three days in the week and gave lessons. I made four hundred dollars that winter.” She broke off with a little laugh. “I don’t think I ever felt so good in all my life as when I counted up and found that I had really made four hundred dollars for Julian! I never understood before why poor people want to get married—it’s for the fun of working for each other I think. It’s the most satisfying sensation I know of.” She glanced up at the woman beside the window. Miss Arbuthnot nodded absently. She was thinking of her safe investments—she had accumulated a good deal of money during her long years of teaching and her people had all been well off and she had never given a cent to anyone except in presents and trifling remembrances and organized charitable work. A strange desire grew upon her to share her life with someone. She looked with troubled eyes at the girl who had suddenly made her work and her life dissatisfying to her.
“I don’t understand”—she murmured—“and didn’t you ever regret—regret your wealth and social position?—the other life you had known?”
“I think it’s my turn not to understand,” said the girl slowly with a puzzled look. “You mean did I regret marrying Julian?”
Miss Arbuthnot nodded. An angry little flush mounted to the girl’s cheek, and then, as if the mere thought was too amusing to be taken seriously:
“Regret marrying Julian? O! Professor Arbuthnot—and then there was little Julian, you know. He was the dearest, the sweetest—wait, I have his picture.” She pulled at a little silk cord about her neck and drew forth a small miniature case. In it, painted on porcelain, was the head of a child with the blond beauty of its mother. As the girl looked at it her eyes filled with tears and she bent over it sobbing and kissing it passionately.
“That is all I have to regret,” she said. “He was two years old when he died—that was almost a year ago. I couldn’t tell you what he was like. I think he was the brightest, prettiest, sweetest boy in the world. You ought to have seen his hands and feet—all dimples and soft pinkiness and milky whiteness—and his eyes and long lashes——!” she stopped breathlessly.