“Oh, I’m so glad she stayed!” cried Aunt Nan, a big lump in her throat and her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so glad—Aunt Deborah!” She took one of the little old lady’s hands in hers. “We’re all together now,” she said, “New England and the West. There’s no difference any longer, is there, Virginia?”
“No, Aunt Nan,” said Virginia, choking down the lump in her own throat. “There’s not a bit of difference. And somehow I’m sure Mother knows. Aren’t you, Aunt Deborah?”
“Something inside of me says that she does,” said Aunt Deborah softly. “You see, dears, even Heaven can’t blot out the lovely things of earth! At least, that’s how it seems to me!”
A moment later, and Mr. Hunter came around the corner of the porch.
“John,” cried Aunt Deborah gayly, “don’t let’s 115 worry one bit about this old world! With these young folks to write the books, and teach the schools, and take care of the homeless babies, we’re safe for years to come! Come and tell me all about the wheat.”
So the morning passed, and at noon Malcolm and Donald, Jack and Carver rode over for dinner, and for Aunt Deborah’s stories, which Virginia had promised them. Aunt Deborah’s talent for listening won them also, and they told her their ambitions quite as eagerly as the Vigilantes had done. All but Malcolm—he was strangely silent! Dinner was served on the lawn beneath the cottonwoods. Joe and Dick brought out the large table, which was soon set by Hannah and her four eager assistants. It was a jolly meal, quite the merriest person being Aunt Deborah.
“It wouldn’t be so bad to grow old if you could be sure of being like that, would it?” whispered Carver Standish III to Malcolm.
“No,” said Malcolm absent-mindedly, looking at Aunt Nan. “No, it wouldn’t!”
“Now, Aunt Deborah,” began Virginia, when the 116 things were cleared away, “you know you promised you’d tell stories. You will, won’t you?”
Aunt Deborah’s gray eyes swept the circle of interested faces raised to her own.