"I suppose," she said, "that's why you never married mother?"
Abner's mind at the moment was much occupied with the Panama Canal.
"What mother?" he asked. "Whose mother?"
"My mother," answered Ann. "I suppose men are like that."
"What are you talking about?" said Abner, dismissing altogether the
Panama Canal.
"You loved my mother very much," explained Ann with cold
deliberation. "She always made you think of Wordsworth's perfect
woman."
"Who told you all that?" demanded Abner.
"You did."
"I did?"
"It was the day you took me away from Miss Carew's because she said
she couldn't manage me," Ann informed him.
"Good Lord! Why, that must be two years ago," mused Abner.
"Three," Ann corrected him. "All but a few days."
"I wish you'd use your memory for things you're wanted to remember,"
growled Abner.
"You said you had never asked her to marry you," pursued Ann
relentlessly; "you wouldn't tell me why. You said I shouldn't
understand."
"My fault," muttered Abner. "I forget you're a child. You ask all
sorts of questions that never ought to enter your head, and I'm fool
enough to answer you."
One small tear that had made its escape unnoticed by her was
stealing down her cheek. He wiped it away and took one of her small
paws in both his hands.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201