“And Chickabiddy, when she comes back, will be rattling off French like a native,” exclaimed Tom, giving her a hug.
“I hate French,” said Biddy, and she looked at him solemnly. “I wish you were coming along, Uncle Tom.”
Bells resounded through the great station. The porter warned us off. I kissed the children one by one, scarcely realizing what I was doing. I kissed Maude. She received my embrace passively.
“Good-bye, Hugh,” she said.
I alighted, and stood on the platform as the train pulled out. The children crowded to the windows, but Maude did not appear.... I found myself walking with Tom and Susan past hurrying travellers and porters to the Decatur Street entrance, where my automobile stood waiting.
“I'll take you home, Susan,” I said.
“We're ever so much obliged, Hugh,” she answered, “but the street-cars go almost to ferry's door. We're dining there.”
Her eyes were filled with tears, and she seemed taller, more ungainly than ever—older. A sudden impression of her greatness of heart was borne home to me, and I grasped the value of such rugged friendship as hers—as Tom's.
“We shouldn't know how to behave in an automobile,” he said, as though to soften her refusal. And I stood watching their receding figures as they walked out into the street and hailed the huge electric car that came to a stop beyond them. Above its windows was painted “The Ashuela Traction Company,” a label reminiscent of my professional activities. Then I heard the chauffeur ask:—“Where do you wish to go, sir?”
“To the Club,” I said.