So the grandmother bided her time, and spoke her occasional earnest words.
"In short, mamma," Erskine said one morning, turning from the window where he had been standing a silent listener to what she had to say, "In short, mamma, you are ashamed of your son, are you not? And I don't wonder; he is rather ashamed of himself. You have been very patient, you and Maybelle, but this whole thing must cease. Of course the child must have her friend with her. Invite her, mamma, in my name, to come at once and remain through the season. I want it to be so. I do, indeed, now that I have settled it; make Maybelle understand that I do."
After he had left the room he turned back to say pointedly:—
"Of course, mamma, it will not be necessary for me to see very much of her; but I shall try to do my duty as host."
She saw how hard it was for him, but she rejoiced with all her heart at this triumph over the morbid strain.
And Mamie Parker came; and was met in due form by her host and treated in every respect as became an honored guest.
There came an evening when Ruth sat alone by the open window of her room. She had turned out the lights, for the room was flooded with moonlight. It outlined distinctly the little white bed in an alcove opening from her room, where her darling lay sleeping. She had just been in to look at him, and had resisted the temptation to kiss once more the fair cheeks flushed with healthy sleep. Downstairs in the little reception room she knew that Maybelle and Erskine Roberts were saying a few last words together; the girl and the boy who, to-morrow, would begin together the mystery of manhood and womanhood, "until death did them part." From time to time she could hear Maybelle's soft laughter float out on the quiet air; they were very happy together, those two.
From one of the guest chambers near at hand the murmur of voices came to her occasionally. It was growing late, and most of the guests had retired early to make ready by rest for the excitements of the morrow; but sleep had evidently not come yet to Flossy and her husband. They were talking softly. They were happy together, those two. Downstairs on the long vine-covered south porch two people were walking; the murmur of their voices as they walked and talked came up to her, Mamie Parker's voice, and Erskine's. And the mother knew, almost as well as though she could hear the words, some of the things they were saying to each other.
"Mommie," her son had said but a little while before as he bent over and kissed his boy, and then turned and put both arms about her and kissed her, using the old name that of late had almost dropped away from him:—
"Mommie, can you give me your blessing and wish me Godspeed?"