“And, father——” she bent to lay a roseleaf cheek against his own—“you began with mother in a poorer home than this, and were so happy! Don’t I know that?”
“Yes, yes, dear,” he sighed. “That’s true, too. But we were both poor—had always been so. It was an advance for us—not a coming down.”
“It’s no coming down for me.” There was spirit and fire in the girl’s eyes now. “Just to wear less costly clothes—to walk instead of drive—to live on simpler food—what are those things? Look at these,” she pointed to the rows of books in the bookcases which lined two walls of the room. “I’m marrying a man of refinement, of family, of the sort of blood that tells. He’s an educated man—he loves the things those books stand for. He’s good and strong and fine—and if I’m not safe with him I’ll never be safe with anybody. But besides all that—I—I love him with all there is of me. Oh—are you satisfied now?”
Blushing furiously she turned away. Her father got to his feet, stood looking after her a moment with something very tender coming into his eyes, then took a step toward her and gathered her into his arms.
VIII.—On Account of the Tea-Kettle
“This is the nineteenth day of August,” observed Anthony Robeson. “We finished furnishing the house for my future bride on the third day of the month. Over two weeks have gone by since then. The place must need dusting.”
He glanced casually at the figure in white which sat just above him upon the step of the great porch at the back of the Marcy country house. It was past twilight, the moon was not yet up, and only the glow from a distant shaded lamp at the other end of the porch served to give him a hint as to the expression upon his companion’s face.
“I’m beginning to lie awake nights,” he continued, “trying to remember just how my little home looks. I can’t recall whether we set the tea-kettle on the stove or left it in the tin-closet. Can you think?”