“Just think of it, Daddy. We have only begun.”
“I—I won't think of it! I'll stop it, that's what I'll do!”
Gertrude smilingly shook her head.
“Oh, no, you won't, Daddy,” she said. “You never stop anything.”
She turned to go. Captain Dan sat, speechless in his chair, staring at the bills, the figures, the checkbook, and the prospect of the poorhouse. Then he felt her hand upon his shoulder.
“Never mind, Daddy, dear,” she said softly. “I wouldn't worry any more, if I were you. I think—I am beginning to hope that YOUR worries are almost over.”
She kissed him and hurried out before he could collect his senses sufficiently to ask what she meant. He did ask her at their next meeting, but she only smiled and would not tell him.
The next morning Serena's first remark was concerning the election, which was to take place that evening. All that day she spoke of little else, and when the evening came she insisted upon Gertrude's leaving for the hall immediately after dinner. Laban went with her as escort, Mr. Hungerford's former enviable duty, and one which that gentleman had appeared to enjoy more than did its present occupant, who grumbled at missing his “after supper” smoke. Laban returned early. Gertrude did not.
It was after ten when the young lady appeared. She was very grave when her father met her in the hall.
“How is Mother?” she asked. “Asleep, I hope.”