“He came to ask my permission to pay his addresses to you.”
Peggy dropped her slipper with a thud on the floor, while the rich, warm blood mounted to her cheeks.
“And you told him?”
“That he could—yes.”
The clock ticked loudly in the quiet room. Mrs. Macallister was the first to break the silence.
“Peggy, look at me.”
Slowly the deep blue eyes were raised to hers, but the dearly loved face was blurred by the tears that filled them.
“Granny, Granny, I cannot leave you. Why need we speak of marriage, we are so happy, we two?”
“Nonsense, child,” Mrs. Macallister’s tone was husky, and she cleared her throat of a suspicious lump. “Do you think I want you to be a lonely old maid? No, dear heart, I wish you to marry a man worthy of you. I want to see you rich in domestic happiness, so that when you reach my age and look back over the past, you can say, as I do: ‘My life has been one grand Thanksgiving Hymn.’”
It was not often that the stately dame showed emotion, and Peggy was deeply touched. She dropped down on her knees and pressed her cheek against her grandmother’s as the loving arms met around her.