Uncle Mac heard the little cry she gave, and, looking over her shoulder, whispered, “It was made from a picture I’ve had ever since I was a boy. You’re very like her, my dear—very like.”
Jacquette went farther into the shadow, after that, and Uncle Mac understood. Bobs found her there, presently, wiping her eyes, and, for explanation, she laid the miniature in his hand.
“It’s you,” he said. “No, not you, either.”
“My mother, Bobs,” she told him, and after that they looked at the picture together, without a word.
Jacquette spoke first. “I’m going to put it away here,” she said, turning to a cabinet that stood in the corner. “I’ll show it to Tia after everyone has gone.” Then, as she closed the little drawer on the precious keepsake, a sense of her duty as hostess brought back the smile to her face.
“Just peep through these branches, Bobs,” she said. “See what a pretty picture it makes. How Mary Elliott hovers over Margaret’s chair! She’s always trying to do something for somebody. And isn’t Margaret like a wax doll in that pink gown? Poor girl! Wasn’t it hard she had to break down again? When she had that dreadful illness last winter, and had to go away, she set her heart on finishing in February this year, and then along came typhoid fever, and spoiled that, too.”
“Was it too much sorority, Jack?” Bobs asked, confidentially.
“I’m afraid so. But I tell Margaret there’s one compensation; she and I can be graduated together next June. Oh, Bobs, look at Louise and Quis over there by the door! They’ve forgotten that there’s anyone else on earth. He seems to appreciate her more than ever, Bobs.”
“That’s right,” Bobs agreed. “It’s been mighty handy for him, having her right over at Wells College while he was at Cornell. That would go a long way toward keeping a fellow from being homesick.”
“Don’t you wish you were at Cornell?” she said.