Mrs. Severs flushed. “I am going to spend the day with father,” she admitted, rather shyly. “It is sort of lonesome here alone all the time,—and we have lots of fun in the little cottage on the hill. And sometimes we go out on the beach and lie on the sand,—he takes me in his jitney. He thinks I need more sunshine and fresh air.”
“He is great, isn’t he?” said Eveley warmly.
“He is dear,” cried Mrs. Severs, the quick color surging her face. “I am not very well, and he is so gentle and sweet to me. I—wish I had been more patient,—I am very lonely now. But we are great chums. He has taught me to play pinochle, and I fill his pipe for him. And onions aren’t so bad.”
“Hum,” thought Eveley, as she drove down-town. “You can’t suit some people, no matter how finely you adjust their difficulties.” Then she brightened. “Still, it is better to love each other in two houses, than to be bad friends in one,—as they were.”
That evening, she and Eileen stood at the station impatiently waiting,—having arrived at five-thirty, fearing the train might come ahead of time.
“Oh, Eveley,” Eileen wailed. “Suppose they should not like me?”
Eveley laughed at that. “Suppose you do not like them?” she parried.
“I do. I haven’t seen them for over two years, but they are adorable. They are seven now. The prettiest things,—long yellow curls, and—”
“Billy will probably be shaved by this time,—I mean barbered.”
“Oh, never. No one would cut off curls like his. Their hair will be longer I suppose, probably darker,—and Betty lisps and swallows while she is talking,—”