“When I see him to-morrow, I’ll meditate on the best way to break it to him,” Ned had retorted.
“But you’ll wait a little,” she coaxed.
“Oh, I’ll give you time to get in a bit of work,” he conceded.
Miss Elenore Carrington, looking out of the window, grew suddenly dreamy-eyed.
Over on the far hill, a branch of hard maple had turned brilliantly scarlet. But it could hardly have been its reflection that brought the delicate stain into Miss Carrington’s cheeks. Oddly enough, it was on that particular hill that Hastings had planned to build his bungalow.
* * * * *
It was a morning of merriment, of buoyancy, of stupefactions.
Mr. Kipley was fairly swamped by the last emotion. He sat on the steps of the side porch, and only a medical expert could have told that his condition was not merely comatose.
All that saved Mrs. Kipley was the urgency of preparing a suitable lunch for “those New York folks.”
Even then she discovered herself doing the most remarkable things. “I’ll bake the ice cream next,” she remarked to Hemmy. Hemmy, used to the startling changes of romance, adjusted herself to the situation with apparent ease—and a new dream of bliss.