Old Rose and Silver

"Do you remember, when you were a child, how you used to plan what you'd do with unlimited wealth?"

Allison nodded.

"Well," Rose resumed, "that's just what they're doing with it. They have only the income now, but this Fall, when they're twenty-one, they'll come into possession of the principal. I prophesy bankruptcy in five years."

"Even so," he smiled, "they'll doubtless have pleasant memories."

"What satisfaction do you think there will be in that?" queried Isabel.

"I can't answer just now," Allison replied, "but the minute I'm bankrupt, I'll come and tell you. It's likely to happen to me at any time."

Meanwhile Colonel Kent was expressing the pleasure he had found in his well-appointed household. "Was it very much trouble, Francesca?"

"None at all--to me."

"You always were wonderful."

"You see," she smiled, "I didn't do it. Rose did everything. I merely went over at the last to arrange the flowers, make the tea, and receive the credit."

"And to welcome us home," he added. "They say a fireplace is the heart of a house, but I think a woman is the soul of it."

"Then the soul of it was there, waiting, wasn't it?"

"But only for a little while," he sighed. "I am very lonely sometimes, in spite of the boy."

Francesca's blue eyes became misty. "When a door in your heart is closed," she said, "turn the key and go away. Opening it only brings pain."

"I know," he answered, clearing his throat. "You've told me that before and I've often thought of it. Yet sometimes it seems as though all of life was behind that door."

"Ah, but it isn't. Your son and at least one true friend are outside. Listen!"

"No," Allison was saying, "I got well acquainted with surprisingly few people over there. You see, I always chummed with Dad."

"Bless him," said Francesca, impulsively.

"Have I done well?" asked the Colonel, anxiously. "It was hard work, alone."

"Indeed you have done well. I hear that he is a great artist."

"He's more than that--he's a man. He's clean and a good shot, and he isn't afraid of anything. Someway, to me, a man who played the fiddle always seemed, well--lady-like, you know. But Allison isn't."

"No," answered Francesca, demurely, "he isn't. Do I infer that it is a disgrace to be ladylike?"

"Not for a woman," laughed the Colonel. "Why do you pretend to misunderstand me? You always know what I mean."

After dinner, when the coffee had been served, Allison took out his violin, of his own accord. "You haven't asked me to play, but I'm going to. Who is going to play my accompaniment? Don't all speak at once."