"Not lovelier. But a different kind of loveliness. There are so many kinds of loveliness. Valancy, before this year you've spent all your life in ugliness. You know nothing of the beauty of the world. We'll climb mountains—hunt for treasures in the bazaars of Samarcand—search out the magic of east and west—run hand in hand to the rim of the world. I want to show you it all—see it again through your eyes. Girl, there are a million things I want to show you—do with you—say to you. It will take a lifetime. And we must see about that picture by Tierney, after all."
"Yes, yes, I know," said Valancy impatiently, "What's the use of going into that now? I can't undo this year. God knows I wish I could. I've tricked Barney into marrying me—and he's really Bernard Redfern. Dr. Redfern's son, of Montreal. And his father wants him to go back to him."
Uncle Benjamin made a queer sound. Cousin Stickles took her black-bordered handkerchief away from her eyes and stared at Valancy. A queer gleam suddenly shot into Mrs. Frederick's stone-grey orbs.
"Dr. Redfern—not the Purple Pill man?" she said.
Valancy nodded. "He's John Foster, too—the writer of those nature books."
Uncle Benjamin made a queer sound. Cousin Stickles took her black-bordered handkerchief away from her eyes and stared at Valancy. A queer gleam suddenly shot into Mrs. Frederick's stone-grey orbs.
"Dr. Redfern—not the Purple Pill man?" she said.
Valancy nodded. "He's John Foster, too—the writer of those nature books."
Frogs, little green wizards of swamp and pool, singing everywhere in the long twilights and long into the nights; i
Warm fire—books—comfort—safety from storm—our cats on the rug. Moonlight," said Barney, "would you be any happier now if you had a million dollars?"
Valancy felt pitifully alone. When she could think at all she wondered what it would be like to have someone with her who could sympathise—someone who really cared—just to hold her hand tight, if nothing else—some one just to say, "Yes, I know. It's dreadful—be brave—you'll soon be better;" not some one merely fussy and alarmed.
"I wonder if the Prodigal Son ever felt really at home again," she thought.
I don't care a hang for any cat that hasn't stripes.
"'Who could endure life if it were not for the hope of death?'" murmured Valancy softly—it was of course a quotation from some book of John Foster's.
The car came to a stop beside them. Valancy saw Uncle Wellington and Olive gazing at her in horror from it.
