“You must see Mr. Thornton when he comes to-night, for I have a splitting headache and I’m going to bed.” Her mother stared at her blankly. Was this the end of all her hopes? “To-day is Tuesday—tell him that I will give him my answer Friday night. And, mother”—her voice dropped in a half-ashamed way—“the answer will be yes.”
“My darling child”—Mrs. Warren took her daughter in her arms—“this is the very proudest and happiest moment of my life.”
“Yes, mother, I know,” Nancy freed herself from the clinging embrace. “I’m happy, awfully happy, too”—she said it as one would speak of the weather or some other deadly commonplace. “I think Mr. Thornton will make a model husband. And—and it’s an end to all our nasty little economies!”
“Anne, don’t be so material,” Mrs. Warren interrupted, in a shocked voice.
“I’m not, mother; only think”—Nancy’s eyes glistened—“no more velveteen masquerading as velvet, no more bargain-counter shoes and gloves, no more percaline petticoats with silk flounces, no more plain dresses because shirring and tucking take a few more yards; no more summers spent in close, cooped-up hall bedrooms in twelve-dollar-a-week hotels; grape-fruit every morning, and cream always!” She laughed half hysterically. “And Mr. Thornton is so good! It’s wonderful to be so happy, isn’t it, Marmee?”
Mrs. Warren looked at her apprehensively for a moment. “You’re sure,” she faltered—“you’re sure you’re doing it all without a regret for—for anybody, Nancy?”
Nancy’s nails went deep into the palms of her hands. “Without a regret, Marmee,” she smiled, brightly.
“And that you think you will be perfectly happy with James?”
“Perfectly,” said Nancy, evenly.
Mrs. Warren, reassured, was radiant. “My darling child,” she breathed, softly, “this means everything to me.”