“I’d let him come, if I were you.”
“I won’t! I’m too much ashamed of us.”
“Couldn’t you make things a little better?” Rose suggested, very gently.
“Bill won’t let me! Bill’s a beast! When mother died, he gave up our dear old house—he’s packed up all her pretty things—they’re in the woodshed, in barrels and boxes. He won’t let me touch them. He says we’ve got to learn to work and to live simply. He just adored mother, and he thought father didn’t make her happy enough, so he’s got this idiotic idea about our not being like father’s people—not being highfalutin’. ‘Plain living and high thinking,’ that’s what he’s always saying. High thinking, when he hasn’t left one beautiful thing in our lives! It’s all very well for him; he’s away at sea most of the time—”
“At sea?”
“Yes; he’s first mate on a cargo steamer,” said Margie, with a change in her voice. “I know he’s a beast, and all that, but there is something fine about Bill, after all. He’s a real man. And he’s been awfully good to us—in his way. When Gilbert had bronchitis last winter, Bill was—wonderful. And when mother died—I—I don’t know how I could have lived without Bill.”
She was silent for a moment. “Mother said she knew Bill would take care of us—and he does—only it’s in a wrong way. Bill’s so—I don’t know how to describe it—Bill’s so—big, he could live on a desert island and not be discontented. He can live in this rough, common way and still be—dignified. I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed, but Bill has a way of coming into a room sometimes and taking off his hat, that’s like—like a king.”
Rose felt her cheeks grow scarlet.
“He is—impressive,” she agreed.
“Bill’s big,” Margie went on, “and he only wants a few big things. But Gilbert and I are little, and we want lots of little things. And—” She sat up straight.