The Blossoming Rod | Page 3

boyish smile overspreading his
countenance. "I was looking at that trout-rod in Burchell's window
to-day. I don't suppose you remember my speaking of it, but I've had
my eye on it for a long time." He paused, expectant of encouraging
interest.
"Oh, have you, dear?" said Clytie absently. The room was gradually,
under her fingers, resuming its normal appearance. She turned suddenly
with a vividly animated expression.
"I must tell you that you're going to get a great surprise tonight--it isn't
a Christmas present, but it's something that you'll like even better, I
know. It's about something that George has been doing. You'll never
guess what it is!"
"Is that so?" said Langshaw absently in his turn. He had a momentary
sense of being set back in his impulse to confidences that was not, after
all, untinged with pleasure. His delightful secret was still his own,
unmarred by unresponsive criticism. "By the way, Clytie, I don't like
the way George has been behaving lately. He hasn't shown me his
report from school in months; whenever I ask him for it he has some
excuse. Hello! Is that little Mary crying?"
"I wonder what on earth has happened now!" exclaimed the mother,

rushing from the room, to return the next instant, pulling after her a
red-cloaked and red-hatted little girl who sought to hide behind her.
"Well, what do you think she's done?" Clytie's tone was withering as
she haled forth the shrinking culprit, her small hands over her eyes.
"She lost her purse with the dollar she had saved up for your Christmas
present--lost the money for dear father's present; and all because she
took it with her to buy a five-cent pencil--a green pencil with purple
glass in the end of it; to buy something for herself before Christmas!"
Clytie paused tragically. "Of course, if she hadn't taken her money out
to spend it on herself she wouldn't have lost it!"
"I don't care!" burst out the culprit, her big dark eyes, just like her
mother's, flashing from under her brown curls, and her red lips set
defiantly. "It was my own money, anyhow, if I did lose it. I earned it all
myself. It wasn't yours!"
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" interposed the father in gentle reproof. "Little girls
mustn't talk like that to dear mother. Come, get up here on father's
knee--so." He took off the red cap, tucked the brown curly head in the
bend of his arm, his chin resting on the top of it as he went on, with the
child's small hands clutching at his. "Mary must always do what mother
says; but, so far as this money is concerned, you can make me
something that I would like far better than anything you could buy.
Why don't you make me another pincushion, for instance? The one you
gave me last year is quite worn out."
"A pink one?" asked Mary faintly.
"Yes. What's the matter now?" The child had suddenly wriggled to a
kneeling posture in his hold and had her little strangling arms round his
neck in a tempest of sobs.
"I don't want to give you a pi-ink pincushion--I don't want to! I want
my dollar! I want my dollar--to spend! I want--Father, I want my
dollar--my do-o-ol-lar! I want my--"
"What did I tell you, Mary Langshaw?" cried Clytie. She appealed to

her husband. "It's just the way I knew she'd act. Now I suppose you'll
have to give it to her. Mary, be still a moment--her head is so hot!"
"There, there!" said Langshaw soothingly. "She shall have her money
this minute."
"Of course she doesn't deserve it," said Clytie, but with a tone of relief
in her voice that seemed oddly greater than the occasion warranted.
Mary had wound herself round him passionately; her sobs were dying
away happily in long, deep breaths at intervals. Baby, being undressed
on her mother's lap, was laughing over some pieces of gilt paper. In the
heart of this domesticity it was as if the father and mother were
embarked with this little company on a full and swelling river of love,
of which they felt the exquisite soothing ripples.
Langshaw put his hand into his pocket.
"No, I can't give you the dollar this minute, little girl; father has only a
ten-dollar bill. I'll get it changed right after dinner. Isn't dinner 'most
ready, Clytie?"
"We'll go down just as soon as I get Baby in bed," said the mother
peacefully. "I don't see why George isn't here. Goodness! There he is
now," she added as a tremendous slam of the front door announced the
fact. The next moment a small boy, roguishly blue-eyed and
yellow-haired like Baby, with an extremely dirty face and a gray
sweater half covered with mud, hurled himself into