“We’ve had more fun than we expected, positively more,” Kate exclaimed, “and I shall never take a bit of stock again in that idea that thinking about things beforehand is better than actually having them. It must have been started by somebody who was too old to enjoy things.”
And her grandfather, after grunting a little over the last clause, and calling attention to the fact that he, at least, had never seen the time when he could say of any rational enjoyments, “I have no pleasure in them,” was inclined to agree with the sentiment.
“Things don’t turn out just as you expect them to, of course,” he remarked reflectively. “I never knew it to happen that a body didn’t miss something of what he’d counted on, but then, on the other hand, something’s sure to turn up that you warn’t looking for, and you must set one over against the other. There are worse things than old age to keep folks from enjoying themselves,” he added acutely, “and one of them is being so taken up with yourself that you feel abused if your own plans don’t work out to a T. For my part, I shouldn’t wonder if there was more pleasure to be got out of surprises, anyhow.”
The allusion to unexpected things of course suggested the meeting with Mr. Hadley, and then followed a full account of all his subsequent attentions. The old gentleman was delighted, and wished he could have been with them when they made that visit to the house on Beacon Street, a wish which it is doubtful whether the girls fully shared. They did not demur to it, however, nor yet to his evident impression that the young man’s gratitude for the light which had been thrown on the history of his forefathers had led him to extend these pleasant courtesies to his, Ruel Saxon’s, descendants.
Tom was the first to suggest the doubt. “Say, did the nabob talk all the time about his ancestors?” he demanded of Kate, as they sat on the wood-pile after supper, a perch to which she declared she was glad to come back after her fortnight’s absence.
“Of course he didn’t,” she replied. “I don’t think he spoke of them once, except when he showed us some of their portraits in the library.”
“I thought so,” said Tom, kicking a birch stick down from the pile, and sending it with accurate aim against the instrument which he called a “saw-horse” and she called a “saw-buck.” Then, looking her in the eyes, he asked coolly, “Which of ’em is it, Stelle or Esther?”
“Both of ’em, I reckon,” said Kate, with equal coolness.
“It’ll be one of them in particular if it keeps on like this,” said Tom, “and I’ll bet a shilling it’ll be Esther.”
For once she did not take up the wager. It had been thrown down between them so often during the summer that nothing had prevented their both becoming bankrupt except the standing quarrel as to the amount involved, Tom maintaining steadily that it was sixteen and two-third cents, one sixth of a dollar, and she insisting with equal obstinacy that it was twelve and a half. This time she let it pass.