"Behind the door! Father!" exclaimed Marjorie, breaking in on the reminiscence. "Oh, mother!"
Mrs. Bethune laughed. "You'll understand some day, Marjorie. That was the beginning; after that, I kept out of his way——" She paused.
"Yes?" said Marjorie interestedly. "I don't wonder. Behind the door! I couldn't put that in a sonnet."
"It was difficult to meet alone," went on the mother. "We lived four miles apart, And I was afraid. I didn't want him to speak, and yet——"
"Didn't you love him then? Perhaps I could put that. Or did loving him make you shy?"
"Perhaps. But he was masterful—he found a way."
"Masterful," mused Marjorie, much exercised at this new presentation of her scholarly father. "Then love alters characters, if it made father masterful and you shy. Well, those are at least some facts. Thank you. What else, mother? Tell me exactly, please."
"One day after lunch, when he had come over, I remembered that I had dropped my thimble under the table, and I went back to the dining-room to look for it."
"And he followed?"