“She’s been my child all her seventeen, going on eighteen, years, and I fed her and cared for her through every sickness she had. Now she’s asked for food I shall get her first breakfast ready, and that’s the end of it. You keep in mind how bad you wanted to do it, when you couldn’t, and wait on her hand and foot when you can, later on, when she’s getting about and tries to do for you two more than she should,” Anne delivered her ultimatum as she bustled about, getting out the little squat Wedgewood teapot, the cream jug and sugar bowl that Mary had loved best as a child, and had called “Mr. and Mrs. Dumpie Short,” affectionately.
It did not need Doctor Hall’s beaming face to tell the Garden household that Mary was better and was to stay with them. Nevertheless that look on his face was a joy to see, after the anxiety that had been knitting it.
“The best of the Garden girls is going to live on, Jane and Florimel,” he said.
“With the worst of them!” cried Florimel, in a burst of happy tears. “Jane and I don’t care how high you put Mary above us. We know all about her!”
“Oh, well, I’ve seen worse little girls than you two, though Mary is about the sweetest maiden anywhere. That old word suits her, too. I’m happier than you can believe to tell you she’s safe. And her pretty face not touched, nor her fine hands scarred, beyond one mark that will last, on the right one. Her arms may be scarred. I think she may have to wear lace over them—when she goes to balls, I mean! But I had no hope, at first, of coming so near saving her from disfigurement.”
“Lace sleeves don’t matter; Mary won’t get to many sleeveless parties in Vineclad,” said Florimel. “To think we’re talking about parties! For Mary! Even if they had to be overall parties, it wouldn’t matter!”
“Right-o, kiddo!” cried Win, with a choke. “Suppose—say, Doctor, how’ll we be glad enough?”
“No need of telling any of you the best way to be glad,” said Doctor Hall, laying his hand on Win’s shoulder with a touch that expressed volumes.
Jane and Florimel, returning to Mary’s room, found their mother down on the rug before the hearth with her scrapbooks and photograph cases, rapidly emptying them. The fire was laid on the hearth, ready for lighting, and Jane hastened over to her mother to ask what she was doing. Mrs. Garden looked up at Jane, and then at Florimel, with an expression on her face so new and different that both the girls were struck by it.
“I’m going to burn it all,” she said, indicating her trophies with a comprehensive gesture.