"Stefana's proud, too—she needn't pretend! I saw her kissin' Elly Precious's knee. But she'll scold; she thinks it's her duty. Mercy gracious, when Aunt Sarah knits an' Mother's back, I hope Stefana'll grow down again."
The Man Person poised his teacup above the saucer, arrested by this new puzzle.
"Er—grow how?"
"Down. She's so terrible grown-up now. It's been pretty wearin' on my nerves. We use' to play dolls together. We don't ever now. She's too starched up."
"Poor Stefana with her starch!" murmured Miss Theodosia. The poor little martyr to starch! It was to be hoped, indeed, that when Aunt Sarah knit, Stefana could grow down again and play dolls.
"Do you know her mother—Evangeline's?" Miss Theodosia asked, after the child had gone. "Is Evangeline like her;—is that where she gets her Evangelineness?"
"No, she must get it from the father. The mother is exactly like Stefana, or may be I've got it the wrong end to. I never saw the father; he died a few weeks before the baby was born."
"Well, the father must have been remarkable; somebody is responsible for Evangeline. I love that child next to—my baby. Supposing—I think of it sometimes—supposing I had staid in Rome or Paris or Farthest Anyplace—not come home at all, you know,—then I should have missed it all. I should never have known those children."
"Nor me," he ventured. She did not appear to hear, but went on musingly:
"Something sent me home—I needed those children."