Rose MacLeod

								

Fire was in the old lady's eye. She rose and made him a pretty courtesy.
"Billy," said she, "you're splendid. I won't hold you to it, but it will
please me to my dying day to think I've had another offer. No, Billy,
no. You wouldn't like it. But you're splendid."
Billy, too, had risen. They took hands and stood like boy and girl
looking into each other's eyes. There was a little suffusion, a tear
perhaps, the memory of other times when coin did not have to be counted
so carefully, when they could open the windows without inevitable dread
of the night, its dark and chill. The old lady broke the moment.
"Come over and see Bessie Grant. What do you say?"
"Delighted. Get your hat."
But she appeared with a gay parasol, one of Electra's, appropriated from
the stand with the guilty consideration that the owner would hardly be
back before three o'clock. The old lady liked warm colors. She loved the
bright earth in all its phases, and of these a parasol was one. They
went down the broad walk and out into the road shaded by summer green,
that quivering roof-work of drooping branches and many leaves.
"Billy," said she, "I'm glad you've come."
"So am I, Florrie; so am I."
It was not far to the old Grant house, rich in the amplitude of its
size, and of the grounds, where all conceivable trees that make for
profit and delight were colonized according to a wise judgment. The
house was large, of a light yellow with white trimmings and green
blinds, and the green of the shrubbery relieved it and endowed it with
an austere dignity. There was a curving driveway to the door, and
following it, they came to the wide veranda, where an old lady sat by
herself, dozing and reflecting as Madam Fulton had done that morning.
The two canes by her chair told the story of a sad inaction. She was of
heroic stature and breadth. Her small, beautifully poised head had thick
white hair rolled back and wound about in a soft coil. Her face, pink
with a persistent bloom, soft with a contour never to break or grow old,
was simply a mother's face. It had the mother look,--the sweet serious
eyes, the low brow, for beauty not for thought, the tranquil mouth. She
was dressed in a fine cambric simply made, with little white ruffles
about her neck and above her motherly hands. Madam Fulton saw her
debating as they came, frowning a little, wondering evidently about the
stranger. She called to her.
"Who is this, Bessie Grant?"
The other woman laid a hand upon her canes, and then, as if this were an
instinctive movement, yet not to be undertaken hurriedly, smiled and sat
still, awaiting them. When they were at the steps, she spoke in an
exceedingly pleasant voice. It deepened the effect of her great
gentleness.
"I'm sure I don't know. Come right up and tell me."
They mounted the steps together, and Stark put out his hand. Mrs. Grant
studied him for a moment. Light broke over her sweet old face.