She
began to talk in the nicest, most matter-of-fact way in the world. Not
too awfully cheerful, you know, overdoing it, but just as if I'd come
home for the summer vacation, and there was all the time anybody
needed to talk things over. And she kept that up. The only thing that
marked the difference was that her hand was in mine all the time we
sat there--but that was nothing new, either, and didn't break me up at
all. Maybe you could imagine how grateful I was to her. Good
Lord--what if I'd had to face a mother like Hoofy Gilbert's! What a
chance to put a fellow on the grill and keep him there--his last
evening at home! No wonder Hoofy had dreaded to go.
She kissed me good-night, when we broke up, in just exactly the old
way--no extras. Oh, maybe I did put a little more muscle than usual
into the hug I gave her--Mother's great to hug, just exactly like a
girl--but that was all. We parted with a laugh. Afterward, when I was
in bed, with the firelight still flickering on the little hearth in my
old room, she came in, in some kind of a loose, rosy sort of silk
thing, and her long black hair in two braids, and stooped down and
kissed me, and patted my shoulder, and went out again without saying a
word.
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