To-night he seemed rather oddly interested in my plans for the future.
"I hope that you mean to remain in Tuskamuck," he said. "Some folks think you are likely to move to Boston."
I told him that I had no such intention, and reminded him that baby made a new bond between me and the place.
"Oh, the baby," he responded, it seemed to me rather blankly. "You mean, I presume, that you contemplate keeping the infant."
"Keeping her?" I responded. "Why, I have adopted her."
"I heard so," Mr. Saychase admitted; "but I did not credit the report. I suppose you will place her in some sort of a home."
"Yes," I answered; "in my home."
He flushed a little, and as he was my guest I set myself to put him at his ease. But I should like to understand why everybody is so determined that Tomine shall be sent to a "Home."
July 21. I went to see old lady Andrews to-day. She was as sweet and dear as ever, and as immaculate as if she had just been taken out of rose-leaves and lavender. She never has a hair of her white curls out of place, and her cheeks are at seventy-five pinker than mine. I like to see her in her own house, for she seems to belong to the time of the antique furniture, so entirely is she in harmony with it. I get a fresh sense of virtue every time I look at her beautiful old laces. I wonder if the old masters ever painted angels in thread laces; if not it was a great oversight. Dear old lady Andrews, she has had enough sorrow in her life to embitter any common mortal; her husband, her two sons, and her near kin are all dead before her; but she is too sweet and fine to degenerate. When sorrow does not sour, how it softens and ennobles.