He had helped materially in the slow,
up-hill days of the girl's effort, with faith and kind words. He had
met the mother's coming with most friendly advances, and Mrs. Bell found
herself much at home in his liberal little church.
Diantha had grown to like and trust him much.
"What's this about the new house, Miss Bell? Your mother says I may
know."
"Why not?" she said. "You have followed this thing from the first.
Sugar or lemon? You see I want to disentangle the undertakings, set
them upon their own separate feet, and establish the practical working
of each one."
"I see," he said, "and 'day service' is not 'cooked food delivery.'"
"Nor yet 'rooms for entertainment,' she agreed. "We've got them all
labelled, mother and I. There's the 'd. s.' and 'c. f. d.' and 'r. f.
e.' and the 'p. p.' That's picnics and parties. And more coming."
"What, more yet? You'll kill yourself, Miss Bell. Don't go too fast.
You are doing a great work for humanity. Why not take a little more
time?"
"I want to do it as quickly as I can, for reasons," answered Diantha.
Mr. Eltwood looked at her with tender understanding. "I don't want to
intrude any further than you are willing to want me," he said, "but
sometimes I think that even you--strong as you are--would be better for
some help."
She did not contradict him. Her hands were in her lap, her eyes on the
worn boards of the piazza floor.
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