“True, Puss, true,” returned the Doctor. “She was a staid little woman, was Grace, and a wise housekeeper, and a busy, quiet, pleasant body; bearing with our humours and anticipating our wishes, and always ready to forget her own, even in those times. I never knew you positive or obstinate, Grace, my darling, even then, on any subject but one.”
“I am afraid I have changed sadly for the worse, since,” laughed Grace, still busy at her work. “What was that one, father?”
“Alfred, of course,” said the Doctor. “Nothing would serve you but you must be called Alfred’s wife; so we called you Alfred’s wife; and you liked it better, I believe (odd as it seems now), than being called a Duchess, if we could have made you one.”
“Indeed!” said Grace, placidly.
“Why, don’t you remember?” inquired the Doctor.
“I think I remember something of it,” she returned, “but not much. It’s so long ago.” And as she sat at work, she hummed the burden of an old song, which the Doctor liked.
“Alfred will find a real wife soon,” she said, breaking off; “and that will be a happy time indeed for all of us. My three years’ trust is nearly at an end, Marion. It has been a very easy one. I shall tell Alfred, when I give you back to him, that you have loved him dearly all the time, and that he has never once needed my good services. May I tell him so, love?”
“Tell him, dear Grace,” replied Marion, “that there never was a trust so generously, nobly, stedfastly discharged; and that I have loved you, all the time, dearer and dearer every day; and oh! how dearly now!”
“Nay,” said her cheerful sister, returning her embrace, “I can scarcely tell him that; we will leave my deserts to Alfred’s imagination. It will be liberal enough, dear Marion; like your own.”
With that she resumed the work she had for a moment laid down, when her sister spoke so fervently: and with it the old song the Doctor liked to hear. And the Doctor, still reposing in his easy chair, with his slippered feet stretched out before him on the rug, listened to the tune, and beat time on his knee with Alfred’s letter, and looked at his two daughters, and thought that among the many trifles of the trifling world, these trifles were agreeable enough.