A mother expects
that. But a girl--Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With
my health!"
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!"
said young Mrs. Peters.
A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching,
carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the
door.
"Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!" said his
youngest daughter laughingly. "And Mother will straighten it out after
him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see
him wait on me!"
"A man should be master in his own household," Mr. Bell proclaimed,
raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the
towel--which his wife handed him.
"You won't have much household to be master of presently," said Mrs.
Peters provokingly. "Half of it's going to leave."
Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some
explanation of this attempted joke, "What nonsense are you talking?" he
demanded.
"I think it's nonsense myself," said the pretty young woman--her hand on
the doorknob. "But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you
can--you won't get many more! There's Gerald--good night!" And off she
ran.
Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply
crusted. "Supper's ready," she said. "Do sit down, Mother," and she
held the chair for her.
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