"I am very sorry for you, Nan," he said, "but you must not fret. It is a comfort to me to know that the doctor says you have no organic disease. It is just a question of taking it easy for a while, and, at your age, you can spare the time."
"Oh, can I?" was my reply. "I don't think so, father."
"Perhaps not," he said, with a melancholy smile, "but when you are my age you will know what a blessed thing it is to be young. All things are possible to the young in the present age, it seems to me. Think of your poor Aunt Patty now. What a sorrow to lose the one who has shared her life for thirty years!"
"I am very sorry for her, father. Will you give her my love and tell her so?"
He nodded gravely.
"She has been a good wife to George Lucas, and he was good to her, though a bit grumpy at times," he said. "Poor fellow! I believe he suffered more than we knew. And he had a good deal to worry him. I don't know what your aunt will do. I am afraid she will be poorly off, for farming has been so bad of late, and your uncle, owing to his ill-health and growing infirmities, has let his affairs get into a sad muddle. I should not wonder if she has to leave 'Gay Bowers.'"
"Oh, I hope not, father," I said. "Could she not stay on there and take 'paying guests,' as Mary Dakin's mother does?"
"'Paying guests,'" repeated my father impatiently. "What an absurd expression that is! If a man pays for his board and lodging, how can he be a guest? When will people learn to use words with some respect for their meaning? The word boarder is good enough for me. I like to call a spade a spade."
"But it is much more elegant to call it an 'implement of husbandry,'" I returned, with a smile.
Father laughed, kissed me, bade me be careful to follow the doctor's instructions and was gone. It never entered my head that the suggestion I had so carelessly made could be of the least value, and I was far from dreaming how it would affect my own life.