“Only just proud enough. You are exactly that. Let us live in peace this winter, and then your nineteenth birthday may do its worst for us all.”
“You will not be serious,” she answered, with vexed tears; “my life is a great deal to me.”
“It is a great deal to us all, dear. Work and be patient, and you will have as happy an ending as any story you write.”
“My children end as children,” she said, with a quick laugh. “I shouldn’t know what to do with them if they grew up.”
“There is One who does know what to do with his children when they grow up,” said Roger, bending as he stood beside her and touching her lips with his own. It was the first time he had ever kissed her. She took the kiss as gravely and simply as it was given. Something was sealed between them. She would never be proud with him again.
“I will not kiss you again,” said Roger to himself, “until you promise to be my wife.”
That afternoon Roger asked Marion to drive to Meadow Centre.
“I am glad you did not ask Judith,” replied Marion, with something in her voice.
“Why not?” he asked, indignantly, “why shouldn’t I ask Judith to drive with me?”
“My point was not driving with you, but driving to Meadow Centre.”