A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

Elinor, selecting a paper knife, ran it slowly between the pages of her magazine.

"That business of his seems to be keeping him a long time," was her comment. "What did he say in his last letter?"

"Why, there are several matters of great importance that still remain unsettled. It's not a little thing, his mission, you know. I don't know much about such things; but diplomatic questions, it always seemed to me, take years and years of all manner of serious discussion, and weighty argument."

Kathryn tried to speak lightly; yet the heaviness of her heart was pitifully apparent. Elinor was scanning a colored frontispiece—a thing of vivid yellows and brilliant blues.

"You're feeling almost like yourself again, aren't you, Nell?"

Elinor nodded.

"Yes," she replied. "Thanks to you."

"You were very ill."

"One more doctor would have finished me."

Of a sudden, there came from the drive the quick honking of an automobile horn, together with the soft purring of an engine. Muriel leaped to her feet; brown little legs flashed as she made her way across the garden.