I tossed the reins to a boy standing near and we followed.
Just under the glare of the station lamp we saw Mr. Malcolm MacPherson,
grip in hand. Fortunately no one else was very near, but it would
have been all the same had they been the centre of a crowd.
Aunt Olivia fairly flung herself against him.
"Malcolm," she cried, "don't go--don't go--I'll marry you--
I'll go anywhere--and I don't care how much mud you bring in!"
That truly Aunt Olivia touch relieved the tension of the situation
a little. Mr. MacPherson put his arm about her and drew her back
into the shadows.
"There, there," he soothed. "Of course I won't be going.
Don't cry, Nillie-girl."
"And you'll come right back with me now?" implored Aunt Olivia,
clinging to him as if she feared he would be whisked away from
her yet if she let go for a moment.
"Of course, of course," he said.
Peggy got a chance home with a friend, and Aunt Olivia
and Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I drove back in the buggy.
Mr. MacPherson held Aunt Olivia on his knee because there was no room,
but she would have sat there, I think, had there been a dozen
vacant seats. She clung to him in the most barefaced fashion,
and all her former primness and reserve were swept away completely.
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