“Well, does she dote on them as much as ever? Does she pick them out of the fender, when Mr. Mar has thrown his away? Does she still say: ‘Well, I’m not so well off that I can put a thing in the fire that’s only half-used?’ Does she do that the same as ever, or are you all too rich now?”
Harry laughed. “Oh, we’ll never be so rich that mother won’t use a pencil to its last grasp.”
“Well, then, I’ve got the very thing for her! A nice gold one—pencil, you know. But rather a stump, too. See?—just her size!”
Harry looked doubtfully down upon the somewhat massive pencil-case which Bella had drawn from her pocket and was telescoping in and out. “That’s an awfully fine one, but I can’t quite imagine mother giving up her—”
“Well, look here,” interrupted Bella, “Mrs. Mar’s a person you can’t take risks with. Do you mind going up-stairs and showing her this? Just ask her what she thinks of it—as though I’d brought it to you, you know.” Harry departed on the errand, while Bella returned to the others, but her emissary was back directly with a doubtful face, and Mrs. Mar following not far behind.
“Well?” Bella demanded in an undertone.
“Oh—a—I asked her if she didn’t think it was an awfully fine one, and all she said was: ‘The Lord was very good. He had delivered her many years ago from gold pencils.’”
“What on earth does she mean?”
“Haven’t the ghost—’Sh!”
“Oh, how do you do, dear Mrs. Mar!” Bella flew to embrace the lady, who received the advance with self-possession, but not without a glint of pleasure.