“You have some reason to be,” Harry said, honestly. “You are going to graduate first in your class, and—well, you are pretty, dear—at least you are to father, and, I guess, to other folks.”
Maria blushed. “Only to father, because he is partial,” she said. Then she went up to him and rubbed her blooming cheek against his. “Do you know what makes me happier than anything else?” she said—“happier than graduating first, happier than my pretty dress, happier than anything?”
“No. What, dear?”
“Feeling that you are well again.”
There was an almost imperceptible pause before Harry replied. Then he said, in his pleasant voice, which had never grown old, “Yes, dear; I am better, dear, I think.”
“Think,” Maria said, gayly. “Why, you are well, father. Don't you know you are well?”
“Yes, I think I am better, dear.”
“Better? You are well. Nobody can look as young and handsome as you do and be ill, possibly. You are well, father. I know you can't quite get what that horrid old croaking doctor told you out of your mind, but doctors don't know everything. You are well, and that makes me happier than anything else in the world.”
Harry laughed a little faintly. “Well, I dare say you are right, dear,” he said.
“Right?—of course I am right,” said Maria. Then she danced off to change her gown.