"And then I did save something in Chicago, strange as it may seem," said Bansemer, with a smile. "I have a few of your five per cents. I trust the road is all right?"
The Cables left San Francisco on the following day, accompanied by the Harbins and Graydon Bansemer. There was no mistaking the joy which lay under restraint in the faces and attitude of the Cables. David Cable had grown younger and less grey, it seemed, and his wife was glowing with a new and subdued happiness. Graydon, sitting with the excited Ethel—who was rejoicing in the prospect of New York and the other young man—studied the faces of the three people who sat at the other end of the coach.
Time had wrought its penalties. Cable was thin and his face had lost its virility, but not its power. His eyes never left the face of Jane, who was talking in an earnest, impassioned manner, as was her wont in these days. Frances Cable's face was a study in transition. She had lost the colour and vivacity of a year ago, although the change was not apparent to the casual observer. Graydon could see that she had suffered in many ways. The keen, eager appeal for appreciation was gone from her eyes; in its stead was the appeal for love and contentedness. Happiness, now struggling against the smarting of a sober pain, was giving a sweetness to her eyes that had been lost in the ambitious glitter of other days. Ethel bored him—a most unusual condition. He longed to be under the tender, quieting influences at the opposite end of the car. He even resented his temporary exile.
"Jane," Cable was saying with gentle insistence; "it is not just to him. He loves you and you are not doing the right thing by him."
"You'll find I am right in the end," she said stubbornly.
"I can't bear the thought of your going out as a trained nurse, dear," protested Frances Cable. "There is no necessity. You can have the best of homes and in any place you like. Why waste your life in—"
"Waste, mother? It would be wasting my life if I did not find an occupation for it. I can't be idle. I can't exist forever in your love and devotion."
"Good Lord, child, don't be foolish," exclaimed Cable. "That hurts me more than you think. Everything we have is yours."
"I'm sorry I said it, daddy. I did not mean it in that way. It isn't the money, you know, and it isn't the home, either. No, you must let me choose my own way of living the rest of my life. I came from a foundling hospital. A good and tender nurse found me there and gave me the happiest years of my life. I shall go back there and give the rest of my years to children who are less fortunate than I was. I want to help them, mother, just as you did—only it is different with me."
"You'll see it differently some day," said Mrs. Cable earnestly.