I assured him of all he asked for with a full heart.
"Should I come dressed?" was my query.
"Dressed, yes, but not dressed up," he answered. "Neither white neckties nor rubber boots will be required."
"How are Mr. and Mrs. Bill?"
"Happier than ever," said he. "Incidentally they've learned that life isn't all a joke, for one of those little brownies led them to the gate of the great mystery an' they've begun to look through it an' are' wiser folks. Two other women are building orphan lodges on their grounds, an' there's no tellin' where the good work will end."
We were interrupted by the entrance of Miss Betsey Smead. She was a comely, bustling, cheerful little woman of about forty-five, with a playful spirit like that of Socrates himself.
"This is my financee," said Socrates. "She has waited for me twenty-five years."
"And he kept me waiting—the wretch!—just because my grandfather left me his money," said Miss Betsey.
"I shall never forgive that man," said Socrates, as he shook his fist at the portrait. "An' she was his only grandchild, too."
"And think how comfortable he might have been here, and how I've worried about him." Miss Betsey went on: "Here, Soc., put your feet on this piano seat. Now you look at home."