"I don't like that," asserted Jack, turning over the pages of Blackstone. "I don't like to have Clover exiled from a comfortable place, where she would like to be. It is a dog-in-the-manger business that doesn't suit me in the least."
"I guess you needn't worry about the matter," remarked Page. "Mrs. Van Tassel is in no condition to bear a Chicago winter."
"Do you mean she is ill?" asked the other, shutting the heavy book suddenly.
"I don't know. She looks like alabaster, or something that would be easily broken. Miss Bryant was evidently much distressed about her."
Jack fell into a brown study. It sounded strange to hear his cousin speak of these old schoolmates by such names. The idea of Clover, jolly, laughing Clover, with her sunburned cheeks and dancing blue eyes,—the idea that any one should speak of her as looking like alabaster. And Miss Bryant! It was a jest in itself to hear his serious cousin refer in that tone, and by such a dignified title, to Mildred. It was more than two years since Jack had seen the romping girl, whose heavy hair would never remain in its braid, and who, it seemed, would never cease outgrowing her clothes.
He thought of the sisters for some time, while Page went on with his work. He recalled the little boy and girl who had loved him, and gentle Mrs. Bryant, whose mother-heart had always made him welcome equally with her own children. They had all gone now to that world which had lately gained definite interest for him. Had Clover and Mildred suffered yearning and loss comparable to his? The mere thought, tolerantly admitted, gave him a new feeling toward his old comrades.
At last he spoke again. "Where did Mrs. Van Tassel say they were going?"
It was the first time he had given his friend her title. Page observed it.
"California," he answered sententiously.
"That doesn't tell anything."