Kate stared at her child in amused respect. "Do you mean to say you have added literary censorship to your various other accomplishments?"
Jemima smiled deprecatingly. "I was glad to be able to help him a little, after all he has done for us.—Look here, Mother,"—she began to finger the papers on the desk—"do you care at all for Professor Jim?"
"Of course I do!"
"No—I don't mean that way. I mean—Are you ever going to marry him, do you think?"
Kate's speechless surprise was sufficient answer.
"Because if you're not,"—the girl cleared her voice—"don't you think it would be kinder to say so once and for all? You see, if he were sure you would not have him" (suddenly hot color surged over her face), "he might want to marry some one else."
"Old Jim marry! Jemima! What are you driving at? What can you mean?"
"I mean—me," gasped the girl, and suddenly turned and fled from the room.
It took Kate some moments to regain sufficient presence of of mind to follow her. She found her level-headed daughter face downward among the pillows of her bed, sobbing most humanly.
Kate sat down beside her and pulled the golden head over into her arms, where she smoothed and caressed it as she had rarely done since the girl's babyhood.