“I quite agree with you. I know a fellow who feels that with Courage he could defy the whole world.”
“Brevet,” said Courage, folding away the mended dress, “there is a pile of pictures yonder that I have been collecting from the magazines and papers for your scrap-book. Bring them here and let us look them over.”
Brevet was not to be diverted. It was always one thing at a time with him. The pictures could wait—he couldn’t. He had one or two questions yet to ask, and he came and stood beside Courage as though to compel her undivided attention.
“But why couldn’t you visit us? Didn’t you want to?”
“Yes, I should have been glad to come, Brevet; I cannot explain to you why I couldn’t.”
“I suppose it was because there wasn’t anything particular for you to do; you always want to be doing something. Now, Miss Courage, I have heard Grandnana say that if Uncle Harry would bring a wife home to Ellismere some day she would give her all the housekeeping. Now, don’t you think you could come that way, because then you would have a great deal to do?”
“Can you not stop this child?” said Courage, turning with a look of indignant appeal to Harry.
“He is doing very well,” Harry answered, without looking up. Brevet, intent upon his own line of thought, paid not the least attention to either of the last remarks.
“Now, Miss Courage,” resting one arm on her chair and speaking thoughtfully and slowly, “couldn’t you—don’t you think you could—perhaps—be Uncle Harry’s wife and so belong up to our house and have lots of things to do?”
“Yes, couldn’t you—perhaps?” said Harry, very earnestly.