Still more would she have given thanks for the restoration of this beloved son could she have been able to contrast his present state with his condition when, ill and discouraged, he had gone to the lonely log cabin in a wilderness, struggling to build up both body and spirit, far from the sympathy and fellowship of his own.
Now she thrilled with the thought of what he might achieve if only he would, but her heart misgave her that he still held some strange notions of life. She thought the surest way to control his quixotic impulses was to provide him with a good, practical wife,—one who would see the world as it is and accept conditions that are stable, not trying to move mountains, yet with sufficient ambition for both her husband and herself. With a wife and children a man could not afford to be erratic.
"What were you saying, mother?"
"What were you thinking, David, that you did not hear me? I am telling you we have just had a very delightful visit from Lady Clara Temple, and Lady Temple and her son have called."
David made no reply. He seemed to think the remark called for none. "Well, David?"
"Well, mother?" and then: "I think I will go to bed. I am rarely tired, and bed is the place for me." He kissed his mother, then took hold of her chin and lifted her face to look in his eyes. "What is it, little mother, what is it?" he asked gayly and obtusely.
"Aren't you a bit stupid, David, not to see? I wish—I do wish you could care for Lady Clara. She really is charming."
"I do care for her—as Lady Clara Temple. She is charming, and, as you say of me, a bit stupid. What has Laura been doing these two months?"
"Preparing for her coming out after her own fashion. We've been a good deal in town, but she has a reckless way of doing anything she pleases, quite regardless."