“No—only the girl.”
“Humph!” said the old lady again, and was silent.
She remembered Stella very well—a cousin of Madeline’s, a pale, silent girl, mulishly obstinate, who had taken a fancy to a man against whom all her family and her friends had warned her. She had been bent upon marrying him, had married him, and had vanished into a forlorn limbo.
“And that’s her child,” observed old Mrs. Marriott. “A saucy chit, I should call her!”
“Mother!” said a voice beside Madeline, and she looked up to see Joyce’s husband.
It was the first time he had ever called her that, and in her heart she winced at the word on his lips. It was hard for him to say it—she could see that. His honest young face had flushed, and his voice was not very steady. He was a little in awe of the grave and quiet Mrs. Holland, and yet he was doggedly determined to say what he wanted to say.
“I’ll—I’ll do my best,” he said. “She’s so fond of you, and she’s always been so happy with you, but I—I’ll try to make her happy. I’ll—”
Mrs. Holland held out her hand, and he seized it in a nervous grasp.
“There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t both be very happy, dear boy,” she said earnestly. “You’re both—”
She stopped, because Joyce had come. The last minute was here. She looked at her daughter, but that beloved and wonderful face swam in a haze before her.