Bell proudly, "But she does not wish her--business--plans--made public at present!"

Her daughter looked at her with vivid grat.i.tude, but the words "made public" were a little unfortunate perhaps.

"Of course," Mrs. Warden agreed, with her charming smile, "that we can quite understand. I'm sure I should always wish my girls to feel so.

Madeline--just show Mrs. Bell that necktie you're making--she was asking about the st.i.tch, you remember."

The necktie was produced and admired, while the other girls asked Diantha if she had her fall dressmaking done yet--and whether she found wash ribbon satisfactory. And presently the whole graceful family withdrew, only Dora holding her head with visible stiffness.

Diantha sat on the floor by her mother, put her head in her lap and cried. "How splendid of you, Mother!" she sobbed. "How simply splendid!

I will tell you now--if--if--you won't tell even Father--yet."

"Dear child" said her Mother, "I'd rather not know in that case. It is--easier."

"That's what I kept still for!" said the girl. "It's hard enough, goodness knows--as it is! Its nothing wicked, or even risky, Mother dear--and as far as I can see it is right!"

Her mother smiled through her tears. "If you say that, my dear child, I know there's no stopping you. And I hate to argue with you--even for your own sake, because it is so much to my advantage to have you here.

I--shall miss you--Diantha!"

"Don't, Mother!" sobbed the girl.

"Its natural for the young to go. We expect it--in time. But you are so young yet--and--well, I had hoped the teaching would satisfy you till Ross was ready."

Diantha sat up straight.

"Mother! can't you see Ross'll never be ready! Look at that family! And the way they live! And those mortgages! I could wait and teach and save a little even with Father always losing money; but I can't see Ross wearing himself out for years and years--I just _can't_ bear it!"

Her mother stroked her fair hair softly, not surprised that her own plea was so lost in thought of the brave young lover.

"And besides," the girl went on "If I waited--and saved--and married Ross--what becomes of _you,_ I'd like to know? What I can't stand is to have you grow older and sicker--and never have any good time in all your life!"

Mrs. Bell smiled tenderly. "You dear child!" she said; as if an affectionate five-year old had offered to get her a rainbow, "I know you mean it all for the best. But, O my _dearest_! I'd rather have you--here--at home with me---than any other 'good time' you can imagine!"

She could not see the suffering in her daughter's face; but she felt she had made an impression, and followed it up with heart-breaking sincerity. She caught the girl to her breast and held her like a little child. "O my baby! my baby! Don't leave your mother. I can't bear it!"

A familiar step outside, heavy, yet uncertain, and they both looked at each other with frightened eyes.

They had forgotten the biscuit.

"Supper ready?" asked Mr. Bell, with grim humor.

"It will be in a moment, Father," cried Diantha springing to her feet.

"At least--in a few moments."

"Don't fret the child, Father," said Mrs. Henderson softly. "She's feeling bad enough."

"Sh'd think she would," replied her husband. "Moreover--to my mind--she ought to."

He got out the small damp local paper and his pipe, and composed himself in obvious patience: yet somehow this patience seemed to fill the kitchen, and to act like a ball and chain to Diantha's feet.

She got supper ready, at last, making griddle-cakes instead of biscuit, and no comment was made of the change: but the tension in the atmosphere was sharply felt by the two women; and possibly by the tall old man, who ate less than usual, and said absolutely nothing.

"I'm going over to see Edwards about that new incubator," he said when the meal was over, and departed; and Mrs. Bell, after trying in vain to do her mending, wiped her clouded gla.s.ses and went to bed.

Diantha made all neat and tidy; washed her own wet eyes again, and went out under the moon. In that broad tender mellow light she drew a deep breath and stretched her strong young arms toward the sky in dumb appeal.

"I knew it would be hard," she murmured to herself, "That is I knew the facts--but I didn't know the feeling!"

She stood at the gate between the cypresses, sat waiting under the acacia boughs, walked restlessly up and down the path outside, the dry pepper berries crush softly under foot; bracing herself for one more struggle--and the hardest of all.

"He will understand!" he told herself, over and over, but at the bottom of her heart she knew he wouldn't.

He came at last; a slower, wearier step than usual; came and took both her hands in his and stood holding them, looking at her questioningly.

Then he held her face between his palms and made her look at him. Her eyes were brave and steady, but the mouth trembled in spite of her.

He stilled it with a kiss, and drew her to a seat on the bench beside him. "My poor Little Girl! You haven't had a chance yet to really tell me about this thing, and I want you to right now. Then I'm going to kill about forty people in this town! _Somebody_ has been mighty foolish."

She squeezed his hand, but found it very difficult to speak. His love, his sympathy, his tenderness, were so delicious after this day's trials--and before those further ones she could so well antic.i.p.ate.

She didn't wish to cry any more, that would by no means strengthen her position, and she found she couldn't seem to speak without crying.

"One would think to hear the good people of this town that you were about to leave home and mother for--well, for a trip to the moon!" he added. "There isn't any agreement as to what you're going to do, but they're unanimous as to its being entirely wrong. Now suppose you tell me about it."

"I will," said Diantha. "I began to the other night, you know, you first of course--it was too bad! your having to go off at that exact moment.

Then I had to tell mother--because--well you'll see presently. Now dear--just let me say it _all_--before you--do anything."

"Say away, my darling. I trust you perfectly."

She flashed a grateful look at him. "It is this way, my dear. I have two, three, yes four, things to consider:--My own personal problem--my family's--yours--and a social one."

"My family's?" he asked, with a faint shade of offence in his tone.

"No no dear--your own," she explained.

"Better cut mine out, Little Girl," he said. "I'll consider that myself."

"Well--I won't talk about it if you don't want me to. There are the other three."

"I won't question your second, nor your imposing third, but isn't the first one--your own personal problem--a good deal answered?" he suggested, holding her close for a moment.

"Don't!" she said. "I can't talk straight when you put it that way."

She rose hurriedly and took a step or two up and down. "I don't suppose--in spite of your loving me, that I can make you see it as I do. But I'll be just as clear as I can. There are some years before us before we can be together. In that time I intend to go away and undertake a business I am interested in. My purpose is to--develop the work, to earn money, to help my family, and to--well, not to hinder you."

"I don't understand, I confess," he said. "Don't you propose to tell me what this 'work' is?"

"Yes--I will--certainly. But not yet dear! Let me try to show you how I feel about it."

"Wait," said he. "One thing I want to be sure of. Are you doing this with any quixotic notion of helping me--in _my_ business? Helping me to take care of my family? Helping me to--" he stood up now, looking very tall and rather forbidding, "No, I won't say that to you."