Mark laughed, and Win said: “Strain that, kiddums, to clear your remarks. They’re badly mixed.”
Mary explained to Mark: “Florimel means that we never fell into the way of calling people who weren’t related to us uncle and aunt, but Mr. Moulton and Mrs. Moulton are two of our cornerstones. I do wish Mr. Moulton would let you help him. Very likely his book will never be published, but I’m sure it’s fine, and as interesting as it can be to work on. Mr. Moulton would be so happy if a young person were working with him. All we can do is listen when he tells us about it, or reads us bits, but he knows quite well that we don’t understand any more about the scientific part of it than a telephone receiver would, and that must be discouraging.”
“I don’t know what your Mr. Moulton would want of me, but I’d be glad enough if he could use me. You see I meant to go on studying, go to college and specialize and maybe teach, and do something worth doing in botany. But that’s knocked on the head.” Mark tried to speak carelessly, but the tang of disappointment was in his voice.
“No telling which is the short cut to your destination when you’re young and all roads stretch out before you, my son,” said Win, answering this note in the younger lad’s voice and laying a hand on his shoulder with a mock paternal air. “Come on outside, and take a course in botany and astronomy, sitting in our garden watching the stars come out.”
“Just a moment, Win,” murmured Mary. She laid a detaining hand on Win’s arm, and Mark followed Jane and Florimel through the door that led directly into the garden from the dining-room.
“Aren’t we to keep him overnight?” Mary asked. “It may be he hasn’t much money for lodgings, and morning seems the right time to set out.”
“Why, of course, Lady Bountiful,” Win concurred heartily. “Sure thing we’re going to keep him to-night! He’s a mighty nice little chap, if he is out seeking his fortune, and Florimel did pick him up—like the dog!”
“He’s very nice,” Mary agreed. “He has lived among nice people. But he isn’t a little chap, Win; he’s taller than you are.”
“What are inches?” demanded Win. “When you are twenty-four, my child, you will understand that eighteen is mere infancy.”
“In fancy! Yes, it is!” cried Mary saucily. “In reality twenty-four is nothingness.”