"Oh, Rosalie, don't give me anything more to worry about. I do not care how perfectly wonderfully philosophical and psychological he is, he shall not come upsetting my household, that is certain."
But Mr. Artman smiled. After all, Doris was a dear girl, and Mr. MacCammon was—even more than Rosalie had said. And it was one opportunity in ten thousand, in his private opinion. And wasn't it just like Providence to give that opportunity to one of the sweet simple girls of the manse, rather than to some of the more pretentious, more expectant girls of the little town?
"What I particularly wished to say to you is this," Mr. MacCammon was saying to Doris—"if you can get your eyes off the mileage long enough to listen."
Doris turned around sidewise in the seat and snuggled back among the cushions and looked at him so directly that his mind went wandering on the instant, and they were silent a while.
"A penny for them," he offered suddenly.
"I was just wondering how old you really are. It has bothered me so long. And you need not give me the penny, I much prefer the information."
"I am thirty-six. And I was going to say this—are you planning to go to Chicago with your father?"
"Now I know you are truly a wizard. I have thought of that every minute of the whole day. I am afraid we can't. We wanted to, Rosalie and I both, but we just have to save the pennies. So I think we shall hand him over to Providence when he gets on the train."
"It does not cost a great deal—"
"Six dollars per round trip—and it costs a fortune to stay in Chicago even a few days. We can not afford it." She sighed a little. Once in a while it really hurts to be poor.