"When women are as old as I, Ken," she had whispered as he bent over her, "they consign them to death-beds too easily. Give me a month, boy, and I'll go back with you."
Kenneth had given her a month, then two weeks extra; he was bringing her back now—a frail old woman, but one in whose heart the determination to live was yet strong.
"But, darling, we'd have to give up the beautiful wedding—Mrs. Tweksbury could never stand the excitement now, or even this summer."
Doris's voice was more suggestive of attention as she now spoke. Martin waited.
"I know, Aunt Dorrie, but I am sure she would rather have me and Ken married than come to our wedding. Listen, duckie! Suppose, after Joan comes, we plan the dearest little service in the Chapel—I'm sure we could snatch Father Noble as he flits by. There would be you and Uncle David and Joan, and perhaps Clive could wrench himself away, and Mary and Uncle Jed—and," a tender pause, "and—Ken and me! We could make the Chapel beautiful with flowers from The Gap—our flowers—and then I could help Ken with Mrs. Tweksbury—for you, Aunt Dorrie, will have Joan."
Martin blinked his eyes. He never admitted a mistiness to the extent of wiping them. He listened for Doris's next words.
"Childie, it sounds enticing and just like you. I will talk it over with Uncle David."
The voices upstairs fell into a silence and Martin got up and paced the room.
A few minutes later Doris came down the stairs and, singing softly, entered the living room.
There was welcome in her eyes; the languor and helpless expression had faded from her face.