"All you can remember." Seated at
her grandfather's desk she asked Roger many questions. And his
recollections, at first dim and hazy, began to clear a little.
"By George!" he exclaimed. "Here are my initials!"
He stooped over one of the benches.
"Oh, dearie! Where?" He pointed them out, and then while he sat on the rude
old bench for some time more she questioned him.
"But your school was not all here," she said musingly at last, "it was up
on the farm, besides, where you learned to plough and sow and reap and take
care of the animals in the barn, and mend things that were broken, and--oh,
turn your hand to anything. But millions of children nowadays are growing
up in cities, you see."
Half frowning and half smiling she began to talk of her work in town. "What
is there about her," Roger asked, "that reminds me so of my mother?" His
mind strayed back into the past while the low quiet voice of his daughter
went on, and a wistful expression crept over his face. What would she do
with the family name? What life would she lead in those many years?...
"What a mother she would make." The words rose from within him, but in a
voice which was not his own. It was Deborah's grandmother speaking, so
clearly and distinctly that he gave a start almost of alarm.
"And if you don't believe they'll do it," Deborah was saying, "you don't
know what's in children. Only we've got to help bring it out.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148