Joan’s “other mother” saw her often. George Rutherford took care of this. Twice a year he sent Joan with Marian for ten days together to some seaside place; and once a week regularly they spent an hour or two in company. Marian neither asked nor expected more.
“Shall we put off the valley till another day?” asked George.
“No, indeed. Why should you?” asked Dulcibel. “I don’t in the least care to go, and you and Joan have set your hearts on it. And it has rained every day since we came, and very likely will rain every day until we go. I suppose it means to keep fine this morning. You must take waterproof wraps. I shall just stay in, and write to Nessie.”
“You are sure you can spare me, mother?” asked Joan.
“Yes, of course. Your father will never be happy till he has been to that place. I can’t think what you are both wasting time for,” responded Dulcibel, rather ungratefully.
Joan did not seem distressed. She gave Dulcibel a kiss, slipped her arm in George Rutherford’s, and turned to leave.
“Mother really does like writing to Nessie more than anything else in the world,” she remarked, outside the front door.
“Yes, I believe so. One is always afraid of her being lonely; but she has suffered less acutely from the parting than I feared.”
“Isn’t that mother’s way?” asked Joan. “She always dreads and fears everything, and yet somehow she always gets through trouble better than one expects. And after all, she did wish this very much.”
George Rutherford could not quite attain to his old vigorous speed. He would never be the strong man that he had once been, although more fully restored than could have been expected two years earlier. Very little of the head-weakness remained now. He was only a decidedly older man, less able to endure than before his illness, and somewhat easily fatigued.