She was knitting a gray silk mitten, and her needles
were flying.
"Why, Aunt Ruth?" inquired her nephew Louis, who sat next her, revelling
in the comfort of home after a particularly harassing day at the office.
"Did they seem to lack anything in particular?"
"I should say they did," she replied. "Nothing that money can buy, of
course, but about everything that it can't."
"For instance?" he pursued, turning affectionate eyes upon his aunt's
small figure in its gray gown, as the firelight played upon it, touching
her abundant silvering locks and making her eyes seem to sparkle almost
as brilliantly as her swiftly moving needles.
Aunt Ruth put down her knitting for an instant, looking at her nephew.
"Why, you know," said she. "You're sitting in the very middle of it this
minute!"
Louis looked about him, smiling. He was, indeed, in the midst of an
accustomed scene of both home-likeness and beauty. The living-room was
of such generous proportions that even when the entire family were
gathered there they could not crowd it. On a wide couch, at one side of
the fireplace, sat his father and mother, talking in low tones
concerning some matter of evident interest, to judge by their intent
faces.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169