Fanny blushed.
“It is Stephen Duncan. I don’t know what put it in my mind. But he seems so tender and thoughtful and patient.”
“He must have taken all the family virtues,” I made answer.
“He was different in his boyhood from the others;” said papa. “He is a fine and noble man.”
“But what troubles me most now,” began Fanny with a certain funny lugubriousness, “is how I am to meet all these people again. What will the Churchills think? And oh, if Dick had not—”
“Such matters have to settle themselves,” returned mamma. “In all probability the Churchills will know nothing about it. Try and be a little careful in the future. You are no longer a child.”
“Must I wear a veil or enter a convent? Papa, suppose you lock me up in the study? Then they will all flock to Rose, and it will be the same trouble over again. What are we to do?”
“Just now you had better find some employment. I cut out half a dozen aprons for Daisy yesterday;” said mamma.
“Then I will open my beloved machine, so good-bye to romance. Work and you are adversaries.”
I wondered how she could take events so coolly. She sang with her sewing as if her heart was as light as thistle-down.