“I must not leave Dad,” she said simply. “He has only me.”
“And the Philosopher!” added Jack. “And the Deterioration of Language Invariably Perceived!”
They both laughed merrily, and the conversation became lighter and more playful. Before they parted the Sentimentalist had given him her promise that she would not become engaged to any one without giving Jack fair warning of his impending doom. And that in the meantime she would write to him once a week wherever he might happen to be, and would think of him often and kindly.
“And when you say your prayers,” he pleaded, gently, “don’t leave me out!”
“Why, Jack! Of course not!”
He looked meditative.
“I know a fat Scotchwoman,” he said, “who makes it a rule to put people into her prayers when they please her, and to take them out again when they don’t! Her husband was taken ill at a friend’s house and couldn’t be moved, and the friend nursed him tenderly, sent for a specialist and paid him fifty guineas out of her own pocket, besides spending no end of money on invalid food and luxuries,—and after the husband was cured and returned home, this same fat Scotchwoman had a slight difference with this very same loyal and devoted friend and promptly left her name out of her prayers! There’s heavenly thoughts for you! I always think she got up a grudge because her husband was cured! He was a gruff old customer, and rather a drawback to ‘home, sweet home.’ But that’s a true story!”
“Let’s hope it’s an exceptional one!” and she smiled. “No ‘slight difference’ could make me leave you out of my prayers!”
“Bless you, dear little rose-lady!” he said, fervently. “These are not King Arthur times or I should ask you for a glove or a ribbon to wear in my ‘helmet’ though it’s only a khaki cap—but—”
“Will you have this?” and unfastening a small brooch in the shape of a heart, where it held a chain in place round her neck, she gave it to him. “It’s quite small—you can tuck it in under the band and no one will ever see it—”