“Why did you not tell me, Harold?” asked his wife gently.
“Why did not Mary tell you?” he asked.
“Because,” she said earnestly, and the tears started in her eyes, “because she is so unselfish. Because you are both too mindful of my comfort. You make an egotist of me.”
“Hush,” he replied, “Mary is coming back.”
“Black-Face,” said Mary excitedly, when she reentered the room, “this is very wonderful news. I think I must go up and tell Mrs. Darley about it. Mamma, couldn't I be excused from lessons this afternoon? Really, I just feel boiling inside. If you knew how I have wanted to see the place where my papa was born! He has told me such lovely stories about it.”
“Why did you not tell, me that you wished to go to Maine?” asked her mother reproachfully.
“Because, mamma dear, I thought I might make you feel sorry. You see, you had to be born in a city, so I asked papa to tell me those stories only when we were alone.”
“And when have you been so much alone?” asked the lady sharply.
“When you were at teas, and lectures, and concerts, mamma, and making calls. You know you used to go more than you do now.”
Mrs. Denville played with the rings on her fingers. I thought she looked sorry about something, so I went up to her, and crawling on the footstool beneath her feet, I managed to get on her lap.