Mrs Days Daughters | Page 3

the side of her bed, and hid her face in her

hands, preparatory to making her devotions.
A soft tapping on the door before it opened, and Mrs. Day, candlestick
in hand, appeared. A pretty woman of medium height, middle-aged, as
women allowed themselves to be frankly, fifty years ago. She wore a
handsome dress of green satin, a head-dress of white lace, green velvet
and pink roses almost covering her plentiful dark hair.
"Not in bed yet?" she whispered, and looked at the small white
kneeling figure of the younger girl, her hair hanging in a dusky mass of
waves and curls and tangles upon her back. Deleah was hurrying
conscientiously through the established form of her orisons, trying to
achieve the prescribed sum of her supplications before her mother left.
"Can I speak to you for a minute, mama?" Bess demanded, with an air
of importance. "Not here," glancing at Deleah; "outside; just a minute."
"Pray God bless dear papa and mama, sister and brothers, and friends.
Make us all good and bring us safe to heaven at last. Amen," Deleah
gabbled, her face upon the white quilt, her ears open.
"Certainly, dear." Mrs. Day stepped back, closing the door behind her
daughter and herself.
"I don't want Deda to know. She's such a blab, mama."
"Oh, my dear, I don't like to hear you say that!"
"But she is. And she listens to things." Here Bessie pushed the door
behind her open, to reveal the culprit in her white nightgown on the
other side of it. "I should be ashamed to be a Paul Pry!" Bessie said
with indignation and scorn.
Deleah was not at all abashed. "Mama, I don't see why, when nice,
interesting things happen, I should not know them as well as Bessie!"
she complained.
She was sent to bed, however, and tucked up there, and kissed, and

enjoined by an indulgent, reproving mother to be a good girl, and to go
quietly to sleep. What mother could be angry with Deleah, looking at
her rose and white face amid the tumult of tossed dark curls upon her
pillow!
Then Bessie led her mother into an unoccupied room, hard by, upon the
landing, and began to unfold her tale.
"Mama, it is about Reggie." The room was only lit by the flame of the
candle Mrs. Day held, but there was light enough to show the blushes
on Bessie's young plump cheeks. "Mama, he has said something about
that again. You know."
"About his being engaged to you?"
Bessie, cheeks and eyes aglow and alight, ecstatically nodded; her fair
bosom in its garniture of white tulle and forget-me-nots, rose and fell.
"What two pretty daughters I have!" Mrs. Day said to herself, and,
being a devout woman, gave thanks accordingly.
"Well, dear, and what did you say?"
"I said--I don't know what I said, mama. We were dancing that last
galop--the Orlando Furioso one, you know--and the room was so full,
and other couples were rushing down upon us--people are so horribly
selfish when they dance, and some of them dance so boisterously."
"It would be a very nice engagement for you, Bessie. I suppose there
was not a girl here to-night who would not gladly take him."
"I know that. I know that, mama. So does he--Reggie."
"He did not say so, I hope?"
"No. Reggie does not always want exactly to say things."
"But what did he say to you, dear? Is the matter any forwarder than it
was the last time you spoke of it to me?"

"Well, I suppose so, mama."
"You mean you and Reggie Forcus consider yourselves engaged?"
"I think so. But it was so difficult to catch every word in that galop. If
he did not say the exact words he said as much."
"Did he say anything about speaking to papa?"
"No. But I said it."
"You said it, Bessie?"'
"Well, mama! Reggie did not seem to wish to be bothered."
"I see."
"Not quite yet, you understand."
"I see."
In the pause that followed the mother's large eyes, surrounded by dark
rings, and set rather deeply in the dusky paleness of her well-featured
face, dwelt consideringly upon her daughter's round cheeks with their
fair smooth skin, upon her grey-green eyes, and smooth fair hair.
"It is not very satisfactory, I'm afraid, Bessie," she said reluctantly at
length.
Bessie's face fell. "I thought I'd better tell you."
"Certainly, my dear."
"I wonder what we ought to do, mama?"
"To do, Bessie?"
"I thought, perhaps, if Reggie does not speak to papa, that papa might
speak to Reggie?"

Mrs. Day shook a sharply dissenting head. "That would not be the same
thing at all, my dear child."
"What ought we to do, then? I thought you would know. Mothers have
to