“Of course we will stay and keep house, Addie—that is, eat up our dividends, so to speak.”
“Good! Good!” laughed Adelaide.
“Indeed, Miss Adelaide! Won’t you feel rather lonely to have us all flit away?”
“No, Mr. Bombs. I can go to see Ruth every day and the faithful Dombey will be my escort. I like it here. It’s so beautiful, still and sweet. I would not go to Chicago and be in all that smoke, dust, fire, dynamite and stuff for anything. O how happy we are going to be here, aren’t we father?”
“Yes, Addie, quite comfortable, I reckon. Of course we shall miss them, most assuredly we shall; but we’ll try and not grow thin over it,” laughed Schwarmer.
The next day after their departure Adelaide went to see Ruth and took her mother’s journal as she had promised.
“You see how dearly I prize it,” she said, taking off the rose-scented covering. “I have had it rebound and adorned with her own portrait and those of other Friends so far as I can find them—every one she mentioned in the Journal—William Penn, Elizabeth Fry, Lucretia Mott and many others.”
She handed it to Ruth to look at the portraits. It was bound in soft gray plush and had bands and clasps of solid silver.
“O how delicate and shining!” exclaimed Ruth taking it tenderly from her hand—“like her quiet, cheerful spirit I fancy.”
“Yes, that’s the way I tried to have it seem,” replied Adelaide brushing away a tear; “but I didn’t know as you would understand it. Her dresses are all of this dove-like tint. Sometimes when I am alone I put them on.”