“Yours truly,
“F. Raymond.”
CHAPTER XXI.
WILL’S WOOING.
The silver tea-set and damask cloth had been removed from Mrs. Gordon’s supper-table. The heavy curtains of brocatelle were dropped before the windows; a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, for Mrs. Gordon eschewed both furnaces and stoves; the gas burned brightly in the chandelier, casting a softened light throughout the room, and rendering more distinct the gay flowers on the carpet. The lady-mother, a fair type of a thrifty New England woman, had donned her spectacles, and from a huge pile of socks was selecting those which needed a near acquaintance with the needle, and lamenting over her son’s propensity at wearing out his toes!
The son, meantime, half lay, half sat upon the sofa, listlessly drumming with his fingers, and feeling glad that Ellen was not there, and wondering how he should begin to tell his mother what he so much wished her to know.
“I should suppose she might see it,” he thought—“might know how much I am in love with Marian, for I used to be always talking about her, and now I never mention her, it makes my heart thump so if I try to speak her name. Nell will make a fuss, perhaps, for she thinks so much of family: but Marian is family enough for me. Mary likes her, and I guess mother does. I mean to ask her.”
“Mother?”
“What, William?” and the good lady ran her hand into a sock with a shockingly large rent in the heel.
No woman can be very gracious with such an open prospect, and, as Will saw the scowl on his mother’s face, he regretted that he had spoken at this inauspicious moment.
“I’ll wait till she finds one not quite as dilapidated as that,” he thought, and when the question was repeated, “What, William?” he replied, “Is Nell coming home to-night?”