“Jeff has been asking for you, dear. In fact, he’s fretting himself into a fever because you haven’t even looked into the room all this morning. And you were there only a little while yesterday—”
“Twice, yesterday, mother.”
“But such a little while each time. It isn’t kind to leave the poor boy alone all day, on such a dreary day as this.”
“But Charlotte—”
“No, I want Charlotte to help me to-day. It’s time she was learning to do more things about the house. Put on your pink frock, honey, you look so pretty in that, and go in and cheer Jeff up for a while.”
Rhoda did not answer, but looked out at the wet earth and the drizzling rain. Through her soul there surged such a forceful longing to follow her mother’s advice that for a moment it seemed to arrest her powers of both action and speech.
“Don’t sit here and mope any longer,” her mother went on with tender cheerfulness, “and don’t be so unkind to poor, sick Jeff. Come on, honey, I’ll help you dress.” And opening the wardrobe she took out the pink gown. Its wide skirt was covered with tiny flounces and when it was adjusted over a ruffled petticoat and her largest hoopskirt, her slender waist and her head and shoulders rose out of its spreading folds as if they were emerging from a huge, many-petaled rose.
Jeff Delavan’s face brightened as she floated into the room. He was dressed, for the first time since his accident, and sitting by the window.
“Rhoda! How good of you to come—and to wear that dress! You’re like a ray of sunshine on this dark day! I’ve listened and hoped for you all day, and at last you’re here! You’re such a busy person, Rhoda, that I ought to feel fortunate to get even a little of your time. What have you been doing all the morning? All manner of things?”
“Yes,—no—that is—yes, I’ve been busy,—I always am, you know,” she stammered, confused, remembering how idle her morning had been. “I’ve been with father part of the time,” she went on, recovering her self-possession, “talking about the elections to-day.”