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Miss Sally’s Letter
by
Miss Sally deigned no reply. She carefully gathered up her grey silken skirts from the dusty floor and walked out. “Get Christina Bowes to come up tomorrow and scrub this place out,” she said practically. “We can go to town and select paint and paper. I should like the dining room done in pale green and the living room in creamy tones, ranging from white to almost golden brown. But perhaps my taste won’t be hers.”
“Oh, yes, it will,” said Willard with assurance. “I am quite certain she will like everything you like. I can never thank you enough for helping me. If you hadn’t consented I should have had to put it into the hands of some outsider whom I couldn’t have helped at all. And I wanted to help. I wanted to have a finger in everything, because it is for her, you see, Miss Sally. It will be such a delight to fix up this little house, knowing that she is coming to live in it.”
“I wonder if you really mean it,” said Miss Sally bitterly. “Oh, I dare say you think you do. But do you? Perhaps you do. Perhaps you are the exception that proves the rule.”
This was a great admission for Miss Sally to make.
For the next two months Miss Sally was happy. Even Willard himself was not more keenly interested in Eden and its development. Miss Sally did wonders with his money. She was an expert at bargain hunting, and her taste was excellent. A score of times she mercilessly nipped Willard’s suggestions in the bud. “Lace curtains for the living room–never! They would be horribly out of place in such a house. You don’t want curtains at all–just a frill is all that quaint window needs, with a shelf above it for a few bits of pottery. I picked up a love of a brass platter in town yesterday–got it for next to nothing from that old Jew who would really rather give you a thing than suffer you to escape without taking something. Oh, I know how to manage them.”
“You certainly do,” laughed Willard. “It amazes me to see how far you can stretch a dollar.”
Willard did the painting under Miss Sally’s watchful eye, and they hung the paper together. Together they made trips to town or junketed over the country in search of furniture and dishes of which Miss Sally had heard. Day by day the little house blossomed into a home, and day by day Miss Sally’s interest in it grew. She began to have a personal affection for its quaint rooms and their adornments. Moreover, in spite of herself, she felt a growing interest in Willard’s bride. He never told her the name of the girl he hoped to bring to Eden, and Miss Sally never asked it. But he talked of her a great deal, in a shy, reverent, tender way.
“He certainly seems to be very much in love with her,” Miss Sally told Joyce one evening when she returned from Eden. “I would believe in him if it were possible for me to believe in a man. Anyway, she will have a dear little home. I’ve almost come to love that Eden house. Why don’t you come down and see it, Joyce?”
“Oh, I’ll come some day–I hope,” said Joyce lightly. “I think I’d rather not see it until it is finished.”
“Willard is a nice boy,” said Miss Sally suddenly. “I don’t think I ever did him justice before. The finer qualities of his character come out in these simple, homely little doings and tasks. He is certainly very thoughtful and kind. Oh, I suppose he’ll make a good husband, as husbands go. But he doesn’t know the first thing about managing. If his wife isn’t a good manager, I don’t know what they’ll do. And perhaps she won’t like the way we’ve done up Eden. Willard says she will, of course, because he thinks her perfection. But she may have dreadful taste and want the lace curtains and that nightmare of a pink rug Willard admired, and I dare say she’d rather have a new flaunting set of china with rosebuds on it than that dear old dull blue I picked up for a mere song down at the Aldenbury auction. I stood in the rain for two mortal hours to make sure of it, and it was really worth all that Willard has spent on the dining room put together. It will break my heart if she sets to work altering Eden. It’s simply perfect as it is–though I suppose I shouldn’t say it.”