The Wishing-Ring Man Part 25

"Because he wanted the pull Grandfather could give him, as far as I could make out," replied Joy with vigor. "And I don't call it a bit nice way to act!"

She did not quite know why John laughed this time. But she was very glad that he was not bored at being with her.

"Oh, Joy, Joy!" he said. "I take it back. You are not medieval--entirely. Or, if you are, princesses in ivory towers are more delightful figures than I've always thought them."

"We aim to please," said Joy demurely. "But I have to explain that a lot, it seems to me. I had it out with Clarence Rutherford only a day or so ago."

"Oh, you did?" considered John. "Well--don't try to please too hard.

Remember that you are supposed to please me; but you don't have to extend your efforts beyond my family circle."

He was only half in earnest, but he was in earnest at least half.

She wondered just what he meant for a moment, then it occurred to her that he meant Clarence, no less. She was on the verge of saying comfortingly:

"Clarence is just trying to make me fall in love with him. He doesn't count a bit."

But she stopped herself, remembering that Aunt Lucilla would never have said such an unwise thing, let alone Gail.

"I must go now and see how your mother is, as soon as we are through," she told him instead.

She found Mrs. Hewitt surrounded by more hot-water bottles than she had ever thought existed, and reduced to the point where she was nearly willing to confess to neuritis.

"I have pains all over me, child," she announced, "and as long as you are here I shall continue to describe them, so you'd better run.

And if you tell John it's neuritis I shall probably take you over to Phyllis' fountain and drown you the first day I'm up. It will be an annoyingly chilly death if the weather keeps on as it is now----"

She stopped in order to give a little wriggle and a little moan, and saw John standing in the doorway.

"How's the neuritis, Mother?" he inquired sympathetically.

"You know perfectly well," said his mother without surprise, "that I can't spare one of these hot-water bottles to throw at you, John, and I think you're taking a despicable advantage."

"I'll get you some more hot water," said he placidly, collecting two red bags and a gray one, and crossing to her stationary washstand.

"There's a lower stratum you might get, Joy," suggested Mrs. Hewitt, and Joy reached down at the hint and secured the two remaining bottles, which she filled when John was through.

"That's _much_ better," Mrs. Hewitt thanked them, with what was very like a purr.

"Incidentally," said John with concern in his voice, "it's about all anybody can do for you till the weather changes; that and being careful of your diet."

"Yes, and I got it this morning standing out in the damp and chill, watching you out of sight. Watching people out of sight is unlucky, anyway," said his mother. "I might as well say it, if you won't. And I don't expect to be able to get up tomorrow, which is Thursday."

"Thursday?" asked John, sitting down on the couch at the foot of the bed. "Is Thursday some special feast?"

"Thursday's the cook's day out, usually," explained Joy practically.

"But she doesn't need to worry. Dear, if you'll tell me what to do----"

"Usually Nora attends to things that day," explained Mrs. Hewitt sadly, but with a trace of hope in her voice, "but tomorrow she has a funeral she must attend. Quite a close funeral, she explained to me; the remains was a dear friend!"

Joy smiled down on Mrs. Hewitt like a Rossetti angel.

"You don't need to worry a bit," she consoled. "How many meals will she be gone?"

"Only one," Mrs. Hewitt told her, with what was obviously a lightened heart. "Dinner."

"Just dinner for us three? Why, I can manage that easily," said Joy confidently. "At least--I hope I'll suit. I really can cook."

"You blessed angel! Of course you'll suit!" said Mrs. Hewitt. "I'm so glad. John _does_ like good meals."

She moaned a little, rather as if it was a luxury, and turned cautiously over.

"You don't have to stay with me any longer, children," she said.

"The last responsibility is off my conscience. And I may state, in pa.s.sing, John, that I never imagined you had sense enough to pick out anybody as satisfactory as Joy."

They both laughed a little, and then John said, abruptly, that he had to go soon, and swept Joy off with him. Outside the door he stopped short.

"See here, Joy, you mustn't do things like that," he said abruptly.

"You're a guest, not a maid."

She set her back against the closed door they had just emerged from and looked up at him.

"Please let me go on playing," she begged him with a little break in her voice. "You know I never had any mother to speak of, any more than she had any daughter, and--and--please!"

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to look at it keenly.

"Do you really like her so, child?" he said.

Joy hoped he would not feel her cheek burn under his touch.

"Yes," she answered simply. "And--and now I must go and plan a dazzling menu, please, and look in the icebox without hurting the cook's feelings. It's a case of, 'Look down into the icebox, Melisande!' as Clarence Rutherford would put it."

But she did not say the last sentence aloud. She only laughed as the phrase presented itself to her.

"Now, what are you laughing at?" demanded John.

"If I told you," said Joy like an impertinent child, "you'd know.

And now, dear sir, you have to go out on your rounds. Be sure to be back in time for dinner--my dinner. I'm going to plan it tonight, even if I don't cook it."

He didn't seem angry at her--only amused.

"You plan a dinner--fairy princess!" he teased her, looking down at her picturesque little figure from his capable, broad-shouldered height.

"See if I can't!" said Joy defiantly.

And he saw.

When he got back that evening, cold and tired and a little unhappy over a child in his care who did not seem to be gaining, Joy met him at the door, drawing him into the warmth and light with two little warm hands. She had dressed herself in the little blue muslin frock she had bought herself the morning before. It had a white fichu crossing and tying behind, which gave her the look, somehow, of belonging in the house. Her hair was parted demurely and pinned into a great coil at the back of her head, held by a comb that he recognized as his mother's. What he did not recognize or remember was that he had told her once that his dream-girl "had her hair parted--and wore blue--and was connected somehow with an open fire."

But he knew that she looked very sweet and lovely and very much as if she belonged where she was.

"Oh, come in, dear!" she cried. "You're tired. Come to the fire a minute before you go upstairs."