FullReads

“Crayon portraits used to be considered quite attractive, and may be again,” said Mrs. Phelps, mildly. “And some day your children will think Puccini and Strauss as old-fashioned as you think ‘Faust’ and Offenbach. But there are other things, like the things that a woman loves to do, for instance, when her children are grown, and her husband is dead, that never change!”

Cornelia was silent, frankly puzzled.

“Wouldn’t you rather do nothing than take up the stupid routine work of a woman who has no money, no position, and no education?” she asked presently.

“I don’t believe I would,” her mother answered, smiling. “Perhaps I’ve changed. Or perhaps I never sat down and seriously thought things out before. I took it for granted that our way of doing things was the only way. Of course I don’t expect every one to see it as I do. But it seems to me now that I belong there. When she first called me ‘Mother Phelps,’ it made me angry, but what sweeter thing could she have said, after all? She has no mother. And she needs one, now. I don’t think you have ever needed me in your life, Cornelia–actually NEEDED me, my hands and my eyes and my brain.”

“Oh, you are incorrigible!” said Cornelia, still with an air of lenience. “Now,” she stopped for a kiss, “we’re going out to-night, so I brought you The Patricians to read; it’s charming. And you read it, and be a good mater, and don’t think any more about going out to stay on that awful, uncivilized ranch. Visit there in a year or two, if you like, but don’t strike roots. I’ll come in and see you when I’m dressed.”

And she was gone. But Mrs. Phelps felt satisfied that enough had been said to make her begin to realize that she was serious, and she contentedly resumed her dreaming over the fire.

The years, many or few, stretched pleasantly before her. She smiled into the coals. She was still young enough to enjoy the thought of service, of healthy fatigue, of busy days and quiet evenings, and long nights of deep sleep, with slumbering Yerba Buena lying beneath the moon outside her open window. There would be Austin close beside her and other friends almost as near, to whom she would be sometimes necessary, and always welcome.

And there would be Manzanita, and the child,–and after a while, other children. There would be little bibs to tie, little prayers to hear, deep consultations over teeth and measles, over morals and manners. And who but Grandmother could fill Grandmother’s place?

Mrs. Phelps leaned back in her chair, and shut her eyes. She saw visions. After a while a tear slipped from between her lashes.