Diantha sat on the floor by her mother, put her head in her lap and cried. “How splendid of you, Mother!” she sobbed. “How simply splendid! I will tell you now—if—if—you won't tell even Father—yet.”
“Dear child” said her Mother, “I'd rather not know in that case. It is—easier.”
“That's what I kept still for!” said the girl. “It's hard enough, goodness knows—as it is! Its nothing wicked, or even risky, Mother dear—and as far as I can see it is right!”
Her mother smiled through her tears. “If you say that, my dear child, I know there's no stopping you. And I hate to argue with you—even for your own sake, because it is so much to my advantage to have you here. I—shall miss you—Diantha!”
“Don't, Mother!” sobbed the girl.
“Its natural for the young to go. We expect it—in time. But you are so young yet—and—well, I had hoped the teaching would satisfy you till Ross was ready.”
Diantha sat up straight.
“Mother! can't you see Ross'll never be ready! Look at that family! And the way they live! And those mortgages! I could wait and teach and save a little even with Father always losing money; but I can't see Ross wearing himself out for years and years—I just can't bear it!”
Her mother stroked her fair hair softly, not surprised that her own plea was so lost in thought of the brave young lover.
“And besides,” the girl went on “If I waited—and saved—and married Ross—what becomes of you, I'd like to know? What I can't stand is to have you grow older and sicker—and never have any good time in all your life!”