And now where's my love story coming in, I should like to know?
* * * * *
Two days after Christmas.
Another wonderful thing has happened. I've had a letter from
Father—from Father—a letter—ME!
It came this morning. Mother brought it in to me. She looked queer—a little. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.
"I think you have a letter here from—your father," she said, handing it out.
She hesitated before the "your father" just as she always does. And 'tisn't hardly ever that she mentions his name, anyway. But when she does, she always stops a funny little minute before it, just as she did to-day.
And perhaps I'd better say right here, before I forget it, that Mother has been different, some way, ever since that time when the violinist proposed. I don't think she cares really—about the violinist, I mean—but she's just sort of upset over it. I heard her talking to Aunt Hattie one day about it, and she said:
"To think such a thing could happen—to me! And when for a minute I was really hesitating and thinking that maybe I would take him. Oh, Hattie!"
And Aunt Hattie put her lips together with her most I-told-you-so air, and said: