“He has wonderful eyes, dear.”
Margaret looked from threading her needle and laughed softly.
“Oh, mamma, you’ve ‘done gone’ and fell in love again! And with a Northerner, too!” Mrs. Ryerson smiled and shook her head.
“I hope I shall never grow so old that I shall be indifferent to a man’s looks, Margey,” she answered. After a moment she added: “Your father was the handsomest man I ever saw.”
“Phillip is like him, isn’t he?”
“Yes, greatly like, dear. And more like than ever since he came back. There’s a difference, dear. You’ve observed it?”
“Yes; he seems—well, more quiet. It’s as though he’d rubbed some of his corners off, too. He’s taller, I reckon, and straighter, and—and older.”
“Yes, older,” echoed Mrs. Ryerson. “And more like Phillip—your father, I mean. I think college has done him good already. But—I don’t want him to change much more, Margey.” She dropped into silence again. Then, “You haven’t told him—anything yet?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” answered Margaret, shaking her brown head above the garment in her lap. “What’s the use, mamma? It would only trouble him. I don’t think he has noticed any difference. Perhaps—later—when he comes home for the summer——”