I remember he played checkers that night with father, losing the first game, winning the second, but father captured the rubber.
"I'm getting rusty," he laughed. "I must brush up. Now let us have a game of cards."
There were several new games. I took a hand with them. When Dan went out to see if Chita and Duke were all right, father said:
"Dan hasn't been drinking for several days. If he could realize how much more of a man he is when he lets whiskey pretty well alone, I think he'd drop it. It was quite like old times to-night, wasn't it, Little Girl?"
My heart was so full that I could only kiss father. Both of them had called me "Little Girl."
I was so comfortable that I dismissed all thoughts of Polly. Indeed, Norman's return was the great theme of conversation, and most people were speculating on how much of a fortune he would have. Mr. Harris had dropped into quite an old man and his hair was snowy white. He took great credit to himself for starting Norman on the road, as he phrased it, and talked over all the early times with father. Oh, how fascinating they were!
I had given up corresponding with Norman, given up my French also. I had written several times after my marriage, but I must confess Norman's letters had lost something of their charm. He used to say, "Do you remember this or that, the walk we took here, the talk about such a poem or such a legend?" He had left off all these references.
"Why do you have to write to Norman?" Dan said on one occasion. "Can't you hear all the news from mother? And I should think the letters must be mostly repetitions."
"Why, I don't have to," I said laughingly.
Then I began to send messages in his mother's letters. She used to write them in journal fashion, and it was quite a labor. Once she said, "I do grudge postage for such clumsy packets, or I should if Norman didn't send it every now and then, twice more than I can use." It was very sweet of him.