It seemed too good to be true. Old, crabbed Mr. Hawkes was long ago dead, and The Cedars closed, and his heir, a very curious woman, had felt that Miss Lisbet was defrauded, and left everything to her in her will! So we were to go back, and it cleared so many worries that we cried together.
"And now, Rhoda, now for a chance to do something!" she says, suddenly.
I only stared at her.
"Why, Miss Lisbet, you've been doing since you were born!" I cried.
"Oh, Rhoda, you know!" she says, coaxing, "only for those near me, and in such a small way! Now the boys are started, and no more worry for the Colonel, and you and I can do something that will last!"
And laughing like a girl, if she didn't fly out to the garden and find our frost-bitten, yellow larkspur, the last!
"See!" says she, and began to wave it.
"Oh, don't, don't!" says I, anxious-like, "and you to be a grandmother next year, maybe!" (for Louis was to be married to a New York young lady in the winter).
But she would, and when she asked, half laughing, half frightened:
"Am I to do what I have longed for all my life, at last?" and stripped off the rotting blossoms, yes, no, yes, no—the last one fell.