"There isn't much to be done, Mardy," said Rob looking up to her mother from her knees as she straightened a file of magazines in the bottom part of one of the cases.
Mrs. Grey aroused herself by an effort from the thoughts into which she had fallen.
"I was thinking how much had been done, Rob, and how much was done with forever," said her mother.
"It is all right, Mardy," said Rob quickly. "I feel more and more sure that it is all right. Much as we miss him it was so beautiful to slip away in the moment of assured triumph that we would not have it otherwise, would we?"
"No, dear; very likely we wouldn't if we had time to remember to be unselfish if the chance came to get him back—but, oh Rob 'son Rob,' the first impulse would not be unselfish!" Mrs. Grey's voice quavered over her words, though she bravely smiled.
Rob scrambled to her feet, and went over to put her arm around her mother.
"I can't help remembering how the first money I earned story-telling went to introduce the bricquette machine to the world, and now, thanks to the machine, I am going to be able to tell stories for a charity," said Rob "let us call this room yours and mine, Mardy, as it used to be Patergrey's and mine, and let us creep away from the others sometimes, and come here for little cosey talks. I feel more like little Rob here than anywhere else. This room makes me forget my eighteen years and five feet six."
"Do you want to forget them, Rob? Your life seems to me so ideally simple, so lightheartedly happy, that I thought you were glad you were no longer that little Robin that used to perch on my knee." Mrs. Grey looked at Rob sharply as she spoke, and Rob looked her squarely in the eyes, with her changeable face flashing into smiles. "She was a nice, dreaming, sunny little Robin, Mardy, but I am as blithe as a blackbird now, so don't imagine the hand of time lies heavy on me yet. Only you know I never did want to be a woman," said Rob. "I think it is so very lovely to be vastly young. Coming events cast their shadows before, you know; they don't cast rays of light. The present is nice." Rob laughed as she spoke, but her eyes were wistful.
"Your future will be 'nice' too, Rob dearest," said her mother. "Somehow, I don't fear for you."
"There doesn't seem to be much plot in our lives, Mardy. Just a little income, just a little house, just a little work, considerable play— and so the Grey days drift along, only they're not grey days in any but a cognominal sense. Now, Mardy, wasn't that a lovely word to have made up just as it was needed, with no malice, nor aforethought?"