Finally she went
beyond their expectations. They hadn't quite anticipated all of
the sweetly undeviating inertia of her mind.
Nevertheless she was a nice girl. In fact; she was The Nice Girl.
She was sweet-tempered, sweet-mannered, and sweet-spoken--a
perfect dear. She never did a "bad" thing in her life. And she
never ceased from her career of moral forcing. She wrote to her
husband from her mountain fastness, warning him against
high-balls in hot weather. She went twice a month during the
winter to act as librarian for an evening at a settlement in a
district which was inhabited by perfectly respectable working
people but which, while she passed out the books, she
sympathetically alluded to as a "slum."
It is hardly fair, however, to lay the whole explanation of Marie
on her father, her husband, and herself.
A few years ago, in the churchyard of St. Philip's Church at
Birmingham, they set up a tombstone which had fallen down, and
they re-inscribed it in honor of the long-neglected memory of the
man who had been resting beneath it for a century and a half. His
name was Wyatt. John Wyatt. He had a good deal to do with making
Marie what she was.
Pages:
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513