“Don’t worry, Mary; she will be. She’s like a child, easily disturbed, easily pleased,” said Anne. “She hasn’t changed in the least. I knew you’d have to have something of this sort. Run back, dear child, and get out a small table and call Win down. Then I’ll have Abbie help me with these trays.”
“Isn’t it lovely, Anne?” Mary exclaimed, flying on her errands.
Win needed no calling; he met Mary in the hall. “I’ll take this, Molly,” he said, preventing her attempt to carry out an old-fashioned work table, whose drop-leaves could be raised for extra space. “Why are you carrying off the furniture? And why not get a van, if we’re moving?”
“Breakfast in the garden, silly Win!” Mary panted. “Mother is out there! She is liking it, I think.”
Win controlled his strong desire to suggest that she ought to like it. He had a very young man’s intolerance of a dependent and petted woman, and he resented his sister-in-law’s forsaking her little girls. Nevertheless, he made himself an acquisition to this garden party in the early morning, set up the table, brought chairs, helped with the trays, while Jane and Florimel arranged a wreath of Bleeding Heart around the table edge, and laid a rose at each place, and Mary stuck a branch of fragrant “syringa,” the mock orange, in the back of each chair.
Mrs. Garden grew animated and childishly happy watching these preparations. “Isn’t it nice? Isn’t it delightful?” she repeated. “Quite like a garden party. I think I shall love it here. I didn’t remember it was so nice. But then I was only a girl and there were no other girls with me. Now I have three girls and a fine gallant to keep me company; that explains the difference. Couldn’t you possibly find a little name for me that would be suitable, yet not so solemn as mother, girls? Somehow I think I’ll never get used to being called mother.”
“And it’s so lovely!” Jane exclaimed before she thought, then could have bitten her tongue out for having spoken. Instantly she felt that this request summed up the situation: they must think of this pretty creature as something else than mother, something that expressed their protection for her, not implying dependence upon her.
“I’ve been thinking mother didn’t suit,” said Florimel, with her usual candour. “Would Madrina do? Madre is mother, and ina is a ‘little’-whatever-it’s-put-to, isn’t it? That calls you our little mother, like the sort of a toy mother you’ll be, I guess.”
“Toy mother! Oh, Florimel! But perhaps that’s what I am,” laughed Mrs. Garden.
“Mother sounds less serious in French and Italian than it does in German and English,” said Jane.