“Bonnie!” said I.
Her eyes met mine.
“I know all about it,” said I boldly.
“O, ma’am,” she said, and tangled the comb in my sad gray curls.
Whereupon I flattered myself that I had taken Bonnie’s testimony and that I was fortified with a thousand reasons for doing my best. But it was not until the next day that I knew how, of all people, I could count on Hobart Eddy to help me to be a kind of servant of Fate.
I was in the library next morning when, every one else being frightfully enthusiastic and gone to look at the puppies, he came in and sat on an ottoman at my feet—dear Hobart Eddy, with his tired eyes and worldly-wise words and smile of utter sweetness.
“Aunt Etarre,” he said, “I feel bored and miserable. Let’s go out in the world, hand in hand, and do a good deed. They say it sets you on your feet. I’d like to try it.”
I shook my head, smiling. Nobody does more charmingly generous things than Hobart and nobody, I suppose, poses for such a man of self.
“No, Hobart,” I said, “good deeds are a self-indulgence to you.”
“Everything I want to do they say will be a self-indulgence,” he observed reflectively. “I dare say when I die they’ll all say I let myself go at last.”