They mak’ enow themsels to vex ’em.’”
“Burns was a sage,” he remarked, laughing, “but I can’t say that I find the application particularly complimentary. And you are not disappointed in your mother?”
“Disappointed! I would not have her different in any respect. I find, to my unspeakable joy, that, besides possessing the sweetest natural disposition, she is an earnest, devoted Christian.”
“I am glad for your sake. Where is she now? I should like to see her again.”
“Stay and spend the evening with us, and you shall. Just now she is lying down. I persuaded her to try to take a nap while Aunt Nannette was doing so.”
“Thank you. Then I will come back,” he said, rising, “but I must leave now for a while. I had forgotten a business letter that must go by the next mail.”
He went, and Ethel stole softly upstairs to her own room and sat down there to think over her great happiness—so great that hardly yet could she fully believe in its reality. Presently she started up, and going to a bureau-drawer, took from it the old, worn, faded pocket-book that, because of her love for the departed, in whose service its brightness had grown dim, was so precious a relic. A moment she stood gazing upon it, a tender dewiness in her soft, bright eyes, then opening, drew forth a tiny folded paper. A light, quick step coming from an adjoining room caused her to turn her head.
“Mother!” she cried in low, musical tones, rapturous with love and gladness.
“Darling daughter!” Mrs. Heywood responded, putting her arms about the slender, girlish figure, and folding it to her heart with a tender caress.