Part 17 (1/2)

”Dear, dear, Nathan!--did I? Oh, dear, what _will_ Alma say?”

”It don't make no diff'rence what Alma says, Mary. Don't ye fret,”

returned the man with sudden sharpness, as he rose to his feet. ”I guess Alma'll have ter take us 'bout as we be--'bout as we be.”

Yet it was Nathan who asked, just as his wife was dropping off to sleep that night:--

”Mary, is it three o' them collars I've got, or four?--b'iled ones, I mean.”

At five o'clock the next afternoon Mrs. Kelsey put on the treasured black silk dress, sacred for a dozen years to church, weddings, and funerals. Nathan, warm and uncomfortable in his Sunday suit and stiff collar, had long since driven to the station for Alma. The house, brushed and scrubbed into a state of speckless order, was thrown wide open to welcome the returning daughter. At a quarter before six she came.

”Mother, you darling!” cried a voice, and Mrs. Kelsey found herself in the clasp of strong young arms, and gazing into a flushed, eager face.

”Don't you look good! And doesn't everything look good!” finished the girl.

”Does it--I mean, _do_ it?” quavered the little woman excitedly.

”Oh, Alma, I _am_ glad ter see ye!”

Behind Alma's back Nathan flicked a bit of dust from his coat. The next instant he raised a furtive hand and gave his collar and neckband a savage pull.

At the supper-table that night ten minutes of eager questioning on the part of Alma had gone by before Mrs. Kelsey realized that thus far their conversation had been of nothing more important than Nathan's rheumatism, her own health, and the welfare of Rover, Tabby, and the mare Topsy. Commensurate with the happiness that had been hers during those ten minutes came now her remorse. She hastened to make amends.

”There, there, Alma, I beg yer pardon, I'm sure. I hain't--er--I _haven't_ meant ter keep ye talkin' on such triflin' things, dear.

Now talk ter us yer self. Tell us about things--anythin'--anythin' on the table or in the room,” she finished feverishly.

For a moment the merry-faced girl stared in frank amazement at her mother; then she laughed gleefully.

”On the table? In the room?” she retorted. ”Well, it's the dearest room ever, and looks so good to me! As for the table--the rolls are feathers, the coffee is nectar, and the strawberries--well, the strawberries are just strawberries--they couldn't be nicer.”

”Oh, Alma, but I didn't mean----”

”Tut, tut, tut!” interrupted Alma laughingly. ”Just as if the cook didn't like her handiwork praised! Why, when I draw a picture--oh, and I haven't told you!” she broke off excitedly. The next instant she was on her feet. ”Alma Mead Kelsey, Ill.u.s.trator; at your service,” she announced with a low bow. Then she dropped into her seat again and went on speaking.

”You see, I've been doing this sort of thing for some time,” she explained, ”and have had some success in selling. My teacher has always encouraged me, and, acting on his advice, I stayed over in New York a week with a friend, and took some of my work to the big publis.h.i.+ng houses. That's why I didn't get here as soon as Kate Hopkins did. I hated to put off my coming; but now I'm so glad I did. Only think! I sold every single thing, and I have orders and orders ahead.”

”Well, by sugar!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the man at the head of the table.

”Oh-h-h!” breathed the little woman opposite. ”Oh, Alma, I'm so glad!”

In spite of Mrs. Kelsey's protests that night after supper, Alma tripped about the kitchen and pantry wiping the dishes and putting them away. At dusk father, mother, and daughter seated themselves on the back porch.

”There!” sighed Alma. ”Isn't this restful? And isn't that moon glorious?”

Mrs. Kelsey shot a quick look at her husband; then she cleared her throat nervously.

”Er--yes,” she a.s.sented. ”I--I s'pose you know what it's made of, an'

how big 'tis, an'--an' what there is on it, don't ye, Alma?”

Alma raised her eyebrows.

”Hm-m; well, there are still a few points that I and the astronomers haven't quite settled,” she returned, with a whimsical smile.