“Yea, yea—she takes after thee.”
“And is that so bad—as long as it is only kisses and perfume?”
He had sat quite hopelessly in his chair, with his head turned. Before he could resist, her arms were about him and she had kissed him and was gone to the steps. There she paused—on the third step—looking as she had looked long ago—she never seemed to get older—as John thought she ought—and called:
“John!”
Her husband looked. And, looking, he had to smile. No one could have helped doing that.
“John, I love thee, anyhow!”
And she rebelliously and defiantly sniffed the perfume and ran up the stair—precisely as Mary Ann had done.
“Takes after her mother,” he sighed—and smiled.
For another thought had come with the smile.
“Or does her mother take after her?”