“Well, I don’t know,” she said in exasperation, “what made me think anything so silly. It would look more like a funeral than a celebration.”
Facing the possibility of having to look at a framed copy of such a picture with the Moreland basket predominant in beauty above her own, and with the mysterious roses and lilies in evidence, Elizabeth had speedily decided that such a picture would be suggestive of a funeral to her.
Across Mahala’s head she said to Jemima: “Was there any loose card or anything you found to tell where those white roses and lilies came from?”
Jemima very truthfully answered: “No, ma’am, there wasn’t.”
Her own curiosity had been sufficient to prompt her to read the little twisted wisp of note paper she had found tucked under the confining bow of gold that held the flowers, completely screened by the sheltering maidenhair. On that scrap there had been written: “With undying devotion,” and there wasn’t even an initial, back or front. So Jemima had returned it to its original twist and thrust it where she very rightly considered that it belonged, and at that minute it was pressing into the flesh of Mahala’s breast, a vivid reminder that it was there.
She was thankful for the crunch of the wheels on the gravel of the driveway which indicated that her father would tie up the horse at the barn before he came to slip off his evening clothes preparatory to putting the animal away. Mahala went straight to her mother and slipping her arms around her, kissed her tenderly.
“Thank you very much, Mother dear,” she said, “for every lovely thing you have done to make this night so wonderful for me. I’ll slip in and kiss Papa good-night before I go to bed.”
She was half way up the stairs before she heard her mother calling: “Wait, Mahala, wait!”
Because she had been all her life an obedient child, she paused with one hand on the railing and leaned down. There was a distinct note of exasperation in her voice as she asked: “What is it, Mama?”
Mrs. Spellman found herself equally unable to ask the question she wanted to ask, and to the same degree unable not to ask it. She wavered. Mahala could see the workings of her brain as plainly as she could see her lips. Taking the bull by the horns was an old habit of hers. She took hold now courageously as ever.