“But, Edward, I’ve told you how matters are between Lucy and me. You know how Mother took her going away and marrying a stranger afterward.”
“Just a minute, Anna. Don’t become so excited. Remember what I have told you so often, that ‘stillness of form and steadiness of feature are signal marks of good breeding.’ I was just about to say that now your mother is dead, it is a good time to write your daughter and renew your old relations with her. She will be most useful to us, and besides, a mother and daughter should not be separated.”
“I’m sure I have no hard feelings toward Lucy,” admitted Nannie, somewhat uneasily.
“Quite so, quite so. A letter properly written would in all probability readjust matters satisfactorily to all. You might advert to the fact that your mother persisted in a hostile attitude and that you were dependent on her. Also you had best adopt a generous tone.”
“Very well, Edward,” agreed Nannie.
“Good. Now that is settled. You had better write at once, my dear. And you might let me see the letter before sending it.”
Nannie wrote that night.
The letter began vaguely. Mrs. Lockhart’s memory was invoked. Forgiveness was offered, though for what was not specified, a reconciliation was taken for granted, and a visit to Lucy proposed in terms that were difficult to ignore or refuse.
Nannie pathetically reminded Lucy that Arthur paid no alimony, and recounted indignantly the heartlessness of the Sheldons. The letter contained no mention of Professor Walsh. “I am thrown on the world,” concluded the epistle. “Your father has deserted me and my own relatives have threatened to put me in the street.”
In a few days came Lucy’s reply. It was an invitation to pass an indefinite time at Rosedene.
X
Nearly a week had passed since Mrs. Merwent’s arrival at Rosedene and Jim had not visited the Winter home. This was an unprecedented length of time for him to stay away.
“How is Mr. Sprague, your partner?” Nannie queried one evening at dinner.
“Oh, he’s all right,” responded John, and then added, “Why he’s not been out since the day you came! I’ll ask him out to dinner tomorrow night. He’s no extra trouble.”
Lucy was silent.
“I’d like to get acquainted with him,” pursued Mrs. Merwent. “Of course if it’s too much work for Lucy—”
“Why no,” answered John. “Lucy never has anything extra for Jim. Do you, Lucy? I want you to know him, Nannie. You’ll like him fine.”
“Lucy hasn’t said anything,” persisted Nannie. “I think she’d rather not have anybody.”
“No, it’s all right,” agreed Lucy. “Jim’s no extra trouble, ever.”
The next morning John told Jim.
“Nannie and Lucy want you for dinner,” John said. “You didn’t use to have to be asked. Why didn’t you come out before?”
“I’ve been going over the books,” explained Jim. “We must raise our prices on those small houses. We don’t make anything on them at present figures.”
That evening they took the train out to Rosedene together.
When they arrived Lucy was in the kitchen and Mrs. Merwent met them at the door.
“Are you tired?” she murmured solicitously as she kissed John’s cheek, then, smiling and extending her hand to Jim, “How do you do, Mr. Sprague? You’re quite a stranger. Lucy thought you had deserted us.”
“No, I’ve been busy,” he replied, taking her hand and smiling in turn.
When the three entered the dining room, Mrs. Merwent picked up two boutonnieres from the table and pinned first one on Jim’s coat lapel, and then the other on John’s.
“Thank you, Mrs. Merwent,” said Jim.
John patted her shoulder.
“Why, how sweet of you, Nannie!” he exclaimed.
At this juncture Dimmie rushed in and, throwing himself headlong into Jim’s outstretched arms, yelled delightedly, “Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim, the cat’s got kittens!”
“Why how boisterous you are, Jimmie.” Mrs. Merwent spoke reprovingly. (She never called him “Dimmie.”)
“Yes,” said John. “You make too much noise, Dimmie.”
“He’s all right. I’m used to him,” put in Jim. He realized as he spoke that never before had he interfered in the child’s training.
“Well, if you like it.” Mrs. Merwent smiled. “I’m afraid you spoil him, Mr. Sprague,” she added.
Jim lifted Dimmie to his shoulder and went off to inspect the kittens. On the way they passed through the kitchen.
“Hello, Lucy.” Jim held out his hand. “Heard you thought I’d deserted you.”
“I can’t shake hands with you. My hands are all over flour,” she explained. “You know I never thought any such thing!”
“Yes, I know,” he answered.
Dimmie grew impatient.
“It’ll get dark and you can’t see the kittens,” he complained.
After Jim and Dimmie had left the dining room, Nannie, who was standing by the table, began to look about as if in search of something.
“Why, Lucy must have forgotten to order it,” she observed, as if to herself. Then she turned to her son-in-law, placing her hand on his arm.
“John,” she asked, smiling, “would you do Nannie a favor?”
“Sure,” he consented. “What is it?”
“I wish you would get me a little fruit to keep in my room. I like to eat a little before going to bed.”
“Of course. I’ll have some sent around in the morning.”
“I meant tonight—if you didn’t mind.”
“All right. Jim and I’ll go and get it after dinner.”
“You cruel boy! You want to advertise my weakness to the world. I didn’t want anybody to know.”
“Good. I’ll just pop out and get it right away. How’s that?”
“You’re a dear boy. I’m afraid Lucy wouldn’t approve of spoiling me this way.” Mrs. Merwent walked into the hall where John followed her.
“Well, we won’t tell anybody,” declared John. He took his hat from the rack and went out the front door, closing it gently after him.
Jim and Dimmie came back from the kitten inspecting expedition and, entering the living room, found Mrs. Merwent alone.
“Mother was asking for you a minute ago, Jimmie,” she told the little boy.
Dimmie ran to the kitchen.
Jim sat down by the fire place.
“Everybody has left me to amuse myself, Mr. Sprague.” Nannie looked up at him challengingly from the depths of
