“God bless my soul,” said Jimmie. “I had almost forgotten you ever had a father—dear old chap! What did he say?”
“I remember him telling you that one day you would die of incurable optimism. For years I used to think it was some horrible disease, and I used to whisper in my prayers, 'O God, please cure Jimmie of optimism,' and sometimes lie awake at nights thinking of it.”
“Well, do you think your prayer has been answered?” asked Jimmie, amused.
She shifted herself a little nearer him and put her hand on his knee.
“Thank goodness, no. You've got it as bad as ever—and I believe I've caught it.” Then, between a sob and a laugh, she added:
“Oh, Jimmie dear, your stupid old head could never tell you what you have done for me since we have been abroad. If I had stayed at home I think I should have died of—of—of malignant pessimism. You will never, never, never understand.”
“And will you ever understand what you have done for me, my child?” said Jimmie, gravely. “We won't talk about these things. They are best in our hearts.”