At the station, just before they passed in to the train, the general appeared.
“There, there!” he fussed. “If your mother should hear of my being here, it would be a very bad business, very bad. This is very sad; but—well, good-bye, dear; and you, sir, be good to her. And write your daddy, Carroll. He'll be lonesome for you.” He blew his nose very loudly and wiped his glasses. “Now, run along, run along,” he hurried them. “Let us not have any scenes. Here, my dear, open this envelope when you are well started. It may help cheer the journey. Not a word!”
He hurried them through the gate, paying no heed to what they were trying to say. Then he steamed away and bustled into a cab without once looking back.
When the train had passed the Harlem River and was swaying its uneven way across the open country, Carroll opened the envelope. It contained a check for a thousand dollars.
“Dear old daddy!” she murmured. “Our only wedding present!”
“You are the capitalist of the family,” said Orde. “You don't know how poor a man you've married. I haven't much more than the proverbial silver watch and bad nickel.”
She reached out to press his hand in reassurance. He compared it humorously with his own.
“What a homely, knotted, tanned old thing it is by yours,” said he.
“It's a strong hand,” she replied soberly, “it's a dear hand.” Suddenly she snatched it up and pressed it for a fleeting instant against her cheek, looking at him half ashamed.