"There, there!" he fussed. "If your mother should hear of my being
here, it would be a very bad business, very bad. This is very sad;
but--well, good-bye, dear; and you, sir, be good to her. And write
your daddy, Carroll. He'll be lonesome for you." He blew his nose
very loudly and wiped his glasses. "Now, run along, run along," he
hurried them. "Let us not have any scenes. Here, my dear, open
this envelope when you are well started. It may help cheer the
journey. Not a word!"
He hurried them through the gate, paying no heed to what they were
trying to say. Then he steamed away and bustled into a cab without
once looking back.
When the train had passed the Harlem River and was swaying its
uneven way across the open country, Carroll opened the envelope. It
contained a check for a thousand dollars.
"Dear old daddy!" she murmured. "Our only wedding present!"
"You are the capitalist of the family," said Orde. "You don't know
how poor a man you've married. I haven't much more than the
proverbial silver watch and bad nickel."
She reached out to press his hand in reassurance. He compared it
humorously with his own.
"What a homely, knotted, tanned old thing it is by yours," said he.
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