Young Derry Willard's father seemed perfectly cheerful.
"Did he really?" he said.
"It's a wonder the crow didn't eat it!" snapped my father.
"But even the crow wouldn't eat it, eh?" said Derry Willard's father. Quite suddenly he began to laugh again. He looked at my mother. He stopped laughing. His voice was very gentle. "Don't be—proud," he said. "Don't ever be proud." He threw out his hand as tho he was asking something. "What difference does anything make—in the whole world," he said, "except just young love—and old friendship?"
"Oh, pshaw," said father. "Oh, pshaw!"
Rosalee came and stood in the door. She looked only at mother. She had on a red coat. And a red hat. And red mittens.
"Derry Willard wants to see the Christmas-tree garden," she said. "May I go?"
Derry Willard stood just behind her. He had on his fur coat. He looked very hard at father. When he spoke he spoke only to father.
"Is it all right?" he said. "May I go?"
My father looked up. And then he looked down. He looked at Derry Willard's father. He threw out his hands as tho there was no place left to look. A little smile crept into one corner of his mouth. He tried to bite it. He couldn't.