Mr. Thornton and his eldest boy came in from the woods just at the right moment—just as all the steaming dishes were ready to go to the table. Uncle, too, came in the right time; in fact there was never so lucky a day; every thing happened at the right time, and in the right way. There was never so good a dinner; or, at any rate, this was what we all said, smacking our lips a little, and holding out our plates for more.
“This will do us all a great deal of good,” said Mrs. Thornton, when we were putting on our things.
“And us, too, Mrs. Thornton!” said aunt; in a hearty way. “I havn’t had a pleasanter time for many a day. And I don’t believe Monde has.”
“No, aunt, I havn’t.”
And it was the truth, Edith. Happy as I have been with Alfred Cullen, I was as happy without him—just thinking of him now and then, as I sat there putting on patches, and doing with right good will whatever came into my way to do.
Let me tell you a little story, dear Edith, and then I am done. Two or three days ago, at about this time of the evening, there sat on this spot, a gentleman of fine features, of easy, manly bearing, and a lady. The lady was not beautiful. The best that could be said of her on the score of beauty, her sincere friend, Edith Manners, had said to her one day; “You are not so homely as you think, Miss Monde. You have beautiful hair, beautiful teeth—and I think a great deal of one’s having pretty teeth. Your form is excellent; and your ways have an abundance of grace and ease in them.”
This was all Edith Manners could say to her friend; and more than many others would have said, who knew her less familiarly; for she had, in truth, grace and ease in her manners only when she had grace and quietness in her soul; that it was sometimes said of her by those she would gladly have pleased, “I don’t fancy her; she has a hard manner.”
Well, they sat here, those two, in their easy-chairs, and rocked and talked, with their eyes steadily on each other’s face. He held her hand in his, and kissed the fingers ever and anon as he talked and listened. At length he folded her close to his heart, and, with his lips on hers, called her—his “beloved!”
The next morning, when they met here, on the spot so sacred and dear to them both now, he took her to him once more, and said, “When will my Monde be all my own?”
She, “pliant as a reed,” and with her arms clinging to him, answered, “Any time, dear Alfred—any time!” because, you see, she felt then, Edith, that she could not well live without him a day.