Part 50 (2/2)

”Don't be absurd! You're a mere infant!”

”Second childhood,” he said, ”you've been an elixir of youth to me; of life itself.”

”You do say such nice things,” I sighed. ”That comes of being a poet!”

”Poet be hanged!” said Bill. ”It comes of being in love--with--you--with you--”

That was a very nice drive. After all, the hansom has advantages. One can sit awfully close, and hold hands under the s.h.i.+ny, wooden ap.r.o.n.

Wednesday Mother came. I called her that right off. She was the dearest thing, with such curly red hair and eyes the color of Bill's, only a different shape. She was littler than I even, with hands and feet that were wholly ridiculous. Father was immediately enchanted with her. The four of us had a long talk, all one soft Spring day, interrupted by Uncle John, and by getting Peter and Sarah safely off to Green Hill. And then, while I was resting, she had her talk with her son, and came to me later, after I had gone to bed.

She curled up beside me in a wonderful blue negligee which made her look like a girl. And we talked--and talked.

”You're the nicest thing that Bill has given me,” I said, happily, before she left, ”and Bill's the nicest thing you could give me. You don't feel,” I begged, ”that I am taking him away from you--?”

”I love you,” she answered, the laughter gone from her eyes, and her face very sweet to see, ”for yourself--for Bill too, but most of all for yourself. I have wanted this since he first wrote me about you. I have prayed for it every night. You were so exactly the sort of a girl I wanted my boy to marry--”

”But,” I said, ”I was just a little, bed-ridden, useless creature then--”

”I knew that Bill would cure you,” said Mother. ”He always gets what he wants--”

”Doesn't he though?” I interrupted, proudly.

”And he wanted you!”

”I love him so,” I whispered against the soft lace at her breast.

She put her arms very closely around me. I don't know why I cried.

And then, she talked to me. Just as my own Mother would have done--very gravely and tenderly for a long half-hour. When she left my room, I lay awake a long time, thinking about her and Bill, wondering if I could ever be to him all that she had said I would be.

I was happy, a little frightened, and so grateful--so grateful.

CHAPTER XXII

The entire household saw us off on our motor trip. Uncle John beaming, Mrs. Cardigan and the maids waving hands and ap.r.o.ns, Mother smiling at us through a mist. She was coming to Green Hill as soon as we were settled, and help me with my first housekeeping. She had demurred at first when I begged her to: had said that ”young people were better off alone.” But I, and then Bill, when he found how much I really wanted her and finally Father had overridden all her objections. I didn't tell my menfolk that it was delightful to have someone to whom you could talk ”Bill” by the hour, and who never grew tired of listening and encouraging and interrupting with paeans of praise of her own.

”What will she think of Mercedes?” I asked, as we rolled through the city, out toward the suns.h.i.+ne and open s.p.a.ces.

”She'll like her,” said Bill. ”Mother's a judge, and she adopted Wright long ago.”

”Those two wild children,” I said, tolerantly.

The maddest cablegram had come to us just before we left. I was still convulsed by it:

Mercedes willing wedding in fall out of my head with happiness everything wonderful thank you a thousand times will see you very soon most marvelous girl in the world sends her love so do _I_.

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