“I want to do something for you,” Elaine went on, laughing to hide the mist in her eyes, “and I’ve just thought what I can do. My mother had some beautiful old mahogany furniture, just loads of it, and some wonderful laces, and I’m going to divide with you.”
“No, you’re not,” returned Dorothy, warmly. She felt that Elaine had already given her enough.
“It isn’t meant for payment, Mrs. Carr,” the girl went on, her big blue eyes fixed upon Dorothy, “but you’re to take it from me just as I’ve taken this lovely Summer from you. You took in a stranger, weak and helpless and half-crazed with grief, and you’ve made her into a happy woman again.”
Before Dorothy could answer, Dick lounged in, frankly sleepy. “Second call in the dining car?” he asked, taking Mrs. Dodd’s place, across the table from Elaine.
“Third call,” returned Dorothy, brightly, “and, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two to wait on yourselves.” She went upstairs, her heart light, not so much from reality as from prescience. “How true it is,” she thought, “that if you only wait and do the best you can, things all work out straight again. I’ve had to learn it, but I know it now.”
“Bully bunch, the Carrs,” remarked Dick, pushing his cup to Elaine.
“They’re lovely,” she answered, with conviction.
The sun streamed brightly into the dining-room of the Jack-o’-Lantern and changed its hideousness into cheer. Seeing Elaine across from him, gracefully pouring his coffee, affected Dick strangely. Since the day before, he had seen clearly something which he must do.
“I say, Elaine,” he began, awkwardly. “That beast of a poem I read the other day——”
Her face paled, ever so slightly. “Yes?”