"Why, how odd," said she. "Mrs. Harrington goes to Philadelphia next week you can escort her, Mr. Rhodes, she is a sad coward about travelling alone."
"I shall be delighted," said the widower, "delighted."
Jemima fairly groaned; she made a strangling effort to turn her agony into a cough, but it began as a groan; both Elsie and Mrs. Harrington were convinced of that, and it delighted them beyond measure.
"It would be very, very kind of Mr. Rhodes," said the widow, "but Elsie, you are inconsiderate, to think of him taking so much trouble only for us, and I a stranger."
"It would be an honor and delight to me," insisted Rhodes.
Jemima resolutely arose from her chair, and planted herself in a seat directly in front of her parent—he could not avoid her eye then—the wrath burning there made him hesitate and stammer.
"Miss Jemima," said Elsie, "come and look at my geraniums; I think they are finer even than yours."
But nothing short of a torpedo exploding under her chair would have made the heroic damsel quit her post, not for one instant would she leave her parent exposed to the wiles of that abominable widow.
"My dear, I am so tired," said she, "you must excuse me."
"Perhaps you'd like to go and lie down," persisted Elsie.