“I’ll be bound you have. I never saw such a Mrs. Machiavelli!—First I mustn’t go in the library but stick to the den, and now that I had just made myself at home in the den I must flee to the library.”
Molly laughed at her husband’s pretended discomfiture as he settled himself to find out what was going on at the front.
“Now read the news to me while I knit. There is no knowing how soon our own boys will be needing sweaters. I feel that every stitch I put in is important. Mercy, what a mess my knitting is in! I do believe that little monkey of a Mildred has been working on it. But she can’t purl at all! Someone else has done it. No one has been here but Andy.”
“Well, I can’t think Andy McLean would attempt a sweater,” laughed Edwin. “Maybe Nance is responsible.”
“But Nance is a past master!”
“She might have been trying a one-handed stunt and failed. I don’t believe even Prussian efficiency could knit and get proposed to and accept all at the same time. Under the circumstances I think she should be forgiven for purling where she should have knitted and knitting where she should have purled.”
“You sound like the prayer book,” said Molly, patiently pulling out stitches and deftly picking up where Andy asked to hold Nance’s hand. “I almost feel as though I were committing a sacrilege. This sweater is like a piece of tapestry where the lady has recorded her emotions, using the medium she knew best. I just know dear old Nance tried to go on with her work all the time Andy was making love,” and Molly wiped a wee tear off on the ball of yarn.
“I tell you that sweater could tell tales if it could speak,” teased Edwin. “Why don’t you sew in one of your golden hairs so that the happy soldier who finally gets it will have some inkling of how the beautiful girl looks who made it?”
“Silly! But don’t you want to hear what my scheme is?”
“Dying to!”