In it Rosalie had one knee on the seat. Her wavy hair was flying in a halo, and she was laughing. Close behind her was Irving Bruce. He was standing, his arm outstretched in some gesture.
“That isn’t my choice,” said Betsy. “I’d rather have this.”
She picked up a photograph of the Clever Betsy under full sail. Gallantly she was breasting a high sea.
“Why in the world!” objected Hiram; and she caught his eyes with an expression he seldom saw.
“Don’t you want the children?” he began.
She smiled a little. “I’ve no objection to the children,” she answered, “but I want—the boat.”
Hiram gazed at her with slow comprehension, then he dropped the photographs and smoothed his wife’s hair as she bent over her choice.
“That’s right,” he said radiantly. “That’s your story, Rosalie,” handing a photograph to her. “This is ours.”
The girl looked at the pair, wondering, and wistful. She had not learned that the heart is never old.
“Tell us more news from Boston,” said Betsy when they were again settled around the fire, Rosalie on a low stool pressed close to her side.