"A dozen! I hope it will never come to that. Not even one in ever so long. There, little girl, give me a good-night kiss and go to bed."
He held me in his arms for some seconds. Perhaps it wasn't the fashion in those days, but people were not generally effusive.
It rained the next day. I spun with a light heart, looked after my hens and then knotted some fringe for my curtains in a pretty way Sophie had taught me. Father read the paper aloud. There was an Indian war in Florida now, and some important political questions discussed in a rather heated manner.
I really wanted to run down to the Piagets, the next morning, but I resolutely refused myself. It was clear and cold. Jolette made mince pies. Father had brought the love of pie from his native State. What an appetizing fragrance they diffused.
About mid afternoon I caught sight of Sophie slipping about the frozen path full of hummocks, but she balanced herself with a fascinating art. I ran to the door.
"Oh, I wanted to see you so, I hoped you would come. Of course you know. I am the happiest girl in all Chicago! But if you had loved him—and often I thought he loved you, and I stood no chance. I wouldn't let mother speak—that is the French fashion, you know—I was so afraid he might be affronted. Luther had asked mother's permission, and she thought it was time I was betrothed. But I couldn't make up my mind to that. I've been gay and full of fun, but sometimes my heart ached for very dread. Only you are such a child!"
"Why, yes, it was ridiculous."
"But Mrs. Hayne loves you so. You'd do worlds better for Ben."
"I don't want to do for anybody."
"But Ben isn't grown up."