Diana strove valiantly not to have a miserable day. She played cribbage with her father until luncheon was served on deck. Then she gave orders for her tea, and Léonie came to remind her of her promise that she might show Bill Lindsay over the yacht. He arrived about the same time as Mrs. Lowell, and Léonie, frightened to death of her mistress's strange mood, besought Diana to remain with her mother while she should fulfill the promise to her island pal, and bid him a long and racking farewell.
So Diana left Mrs. Lowell with her father while she ventured to her mother's bedside and sat down, silently. A handkerchief, redolent of cologne, covered the sufferer's eyes.
"Who is that?" came faintly from the blinded one.
"It is I, Mamma," said Diana meekly. "Are you feeling a little better?"
"Diana,"—the voice was still faint but stern,—"have I been a good mother to you?"
"Mamma, dear, there never was a better. How can you ask?"
"Because no one else thinks so."
Diana threw herself on her knees beside the bed and took the hand that was outside the rosy silk coverlet. "Dearest, I am not feeling very well to-day and you will destroy my poise if you say such things. My heart feels sore for some reason, so do not give it any blows. You know how Daddy and I think there is nobody in the world like you. Daddy was talking about it this morning and telling me how cute and pretty you were when he first knew you,"—Diana's voice began to quaver,—"told me about your dimples and everything, and how you were just as attractive to him now as you had been then, and"—Diana succumbed and tears fell on the hand she held—"and if I am ever married, Mamma,—I do so hope that in twenty-five years afterward—he—he will feel that way about me."
One eye emerged from the cologne bandage and viewed the girl's lovely, bowed head.