“Not at all,” I replied; “we cling to five cents more tightly than you would to five dollars. We know the value of money because we have it; you don’t know because you haven’t.”
But the happiest, most interested person in all the household was my daughter Helen. She was to be maid of honour, and on the wedding day was to make her first appearance in a long dress. It seemed to me that she suddenly flashed out into wonderful beauty—a strange kind of beauty, all in shades of golden brown and having an air of mystery that moved even me to note and admire and be proud—and a little uneasy. Obviously she would be able to make a magnificent marriage, if she could be controlled. The greater the prize, the greater the anxiety until it is grasped.
When she tried on that first long dress of hers she came in to show herself off to me. She has never been in the least afraid of me—there is a fine, utter courage looking from her eyes—an assurance that she could not be afraid of any one or anything.
She turned round slowly, that I might get the full effect. “Well, well!” said I, put into a tolerant mood by my pride in her. “Aurora had better keep you out of Horton’s sight until after the ceremony.”
She tossed her head. “He’d be safe from me if there wasn’t another man in the world,” she answered.
I frowned on this. “You’ll have a hard time making as good a marriage as your sister, miss,” said I. “You’ll see, when we begin to look for a husband for you.”
“I shall look for my own husband, thank you,” she replied, pertly.
But her smile was so bright that I only said, “We’ll cross that bridge, miss, when we come to it—we’ll cross it together.”
There was an unpleasant silence—her expression made me feel more strongly than ever before that she would be troublesome. I said: “How old are you now?”
“Why, don’t you remember? I was sixteen last Wednesday. You gave me this.” She touched a pearl brooch at her neck.