And, what do you think? He was helping me
into that beautiful big green car before I knew it.
"Why, Father, Father!" I cried. "You don't mean"--I just couldn't
finish; but he finished for me.
"It is ours--yes. Do you like it?"
"Like it!" I guess he didn't need to have me say any more. But I did
say more. I just raved and raved over that car until Father's eyes
crinkled all up in little smile wrinkles, and he said:
"I'm glad. I hoped you'd like it."
"I guess I do like it!" I cried. Then I went on to tell him how I
thought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and 'way ahead of even
Mr. Easterbrook's.
"And, pray, who is Mr. Easterbrook?" asked Father then. "The
violinist, perhaps--eh?"
Now, wasn't it funny he should have remembered that there was a
violinist? But, of course, I told him no, it wasn't the violinist. It
was another one that took Mother to ride, the one I told him about
in the Christmas letter; and he was very rich, and had two perfectly
beautiful cars; and I was going on to tell more--how he didn't take
Mother now--but I didn't get a chance, for Father interrupted, and
said, "Yes, yes, to be sure." And he _showed_ he wasn't interested,
for all the little smile wrinkles were gone, and he looked stern and
dignified, more like he used to.
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