"Because it was my first chance to work out some of my home ideals—my first opportunity to make a home, as I had imagined it; then, too,—"
I hesitated, wondering if I should tell not only the plain truth, but the unvarnished one. I decided to speak out frankly; it could do no harm.
"I enjoyed it all so much because I could spend some money—judiciously, you know,"—I spoke earnestly. He nodded understandingly, but I saw that he suppressed a smile,—"without having to earn it by hard work; I 've had to scrimp so long—"
His face grew grave again.
"How much did you spend? I think I have a slight remembrance of some infinitesimal sum you mentioned the first evening—"
"Infinitesimal! No, indeed; it was almost a hundred—eighty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents, to be exact."
"Now, Miss Farrell!" It was his turn to protest. He went over to the hearth and took his stand on it, his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him. "Do you mean to tell me that you provided all this comfort and made this homey atmosphere with eighty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents?—I'm particular about those sixty-three cents."
"I did, and had more good fun and enjoyment in spending them to that end, than I ever remember to have had before in my life. You don't think it too much?"
I looked up at him and smiled; and smiled again right merrily at the perplexed look in his eyes, a look that suddenly changed to one of such deep, emotional suffering that my eyes fell before it. I felt intuitively I ought not to see it.
"Too much!" he repeated, and as I looked up again quickly I found the face and expression serene and unmoved. "Well, as you must have learned already, things are relative when it comes to value, and what you have done for this house belongs in the category of things that mere money can neither purchase nor pay for."