“Now, mother!” expostulated Mary North, chair in hand, and breathless, “you might have broken your limb! Here, take my arm.”
Meekly, after her moment of freedom, the little lady put her hand on that gaunt arm, and tripped up the path and into the house, where, alas! Augusta Price lost sight of them. Yet even she, with all her disapproval of strong-minded ladies, must have admired the tenderness of the man-o’-war’s-man. Miss North put her mother into a big chair, and hurried to bring a dish of curds.
“I’m not hungry,” protested Mrs. North.
“Never mind. It will do you good.”
With a sigh the little old lady ate the curds, looking about her with curious eyes. “Why, we’re right across the street from the old Price house!” she said.
“Did you know them, mother?” demanded Miss North.
“Dear me, yes,” said Mrs. North, twinkling; “why, I’d forgotten all about it, but the eldest boy— Now, what was his name? Al—something. Alfred—Albert; no, Alfred. He was a beau of mine.”
“Mother! I don’t think it’s refined to use such a word.”
“Well, he wanted me to elope with him,” Mrs. North said, gayly; “if that isn’t being a beau, I don’t know what is. I haven’t thought of it for years.”
“If you’ve finished your curds you must lie down,” said Miss North.