And the children grew up, their mother, never dreaming that Barbara at
eighteen was more than the sweet, light-hearted, manageable child she
had been at ten; that Ned was beginning to taste of a life of whose
existence she was only vaguely aware; that Sally was plotting an escape
to the ranks of trained nurses; that Ted needed a firm hand and close
watching if she were not to break all their hearts. No, to Mrs. Toland
they were still her "rosebud garden," "just the merriest, romping crowd
of youngsters that ever a little scrap of a woman had to keep in order!"
"Now, you're going to wipe that horrid frown off your forehead, Daddy,"
she would say blithely, if Doctor Toland confessed to a misgiving in the
contemplation of any one of his seven, "and stop worrying about Richie!
His bad old hip is going to get well, and he'll be walking just like any
one else in no time!" And in the same tone she said to Barbara: "I know
my darling girl is going to that luncheon, and going to forget that her
hat isn't quite the thing for the occasion," and said to little
Constance, "We're going to forget that it's raining, and not think about
dismal things any more!" No account of flood or fire or outrage was
great enough to win from her more than a rueful smile, a sigh, and a
brisk: "Well, I suppose such things _must_ be, or they wouldn't be
permitted.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135