AC dBooks

Somebody was digging in the garden. It was the doctor in his shirt
sleeves.
"Good morning, doctor," I called, speaking over the fence.
He rested on his spade and looked up, but did not speak for a moment.
"Don't you know who I am?" I asked.
"Why yes, of course; you must be. . . ."
Without finishing he turned his head towards the porch and cried:
"Mother! Mother! Come and see who's here at last!"
Martin's mother came out of the porch, a little smaller, I thought, but
with the same dear womanly face over her light print frock, which was as
sweet as may-blossom.
She held up both hands at sight of me and cried:
"There, now! What did I tell you, doctor! Didn't I say they might marry
her to fifty lords, but she wouldn't forget her old friends!"
I laughed, the doctor laughed, and then she laughed, and the sweetest
part of it was that she did not know what we were laughing at.
Then I opened the gate and stepped up and held out my hand, and
involuntarily she wiped her own hand (which was covered with meal from
the porridge she was making) before taking mine.


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