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Updated: June 27, 2025
The strawberry festival and the "tempest" were, of course, the subjects most discussed at the breakfast table next morning. Lute monopolized the conversation, a fact for which I was thankful, for it enabled me to dodge Dorinda's questions as to my own adventures. I did not care to talk about the latter. My feelings concerning them were curiously mixed.
By way of answer I led the horse to the bushes, drew the lunch basket from the shade, and threw back the cover. Dorinda's picnic lunches were triumphs and she had never put up a more tempting one. Miss Colton looked down into the basket. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "There appears to be enough, doesn't there?" I observed, drily. "But but I couldn't think of . . . Are you sure I won't be . . . Thank you.
To my surprise the eyes behind the spectacles became misty. Tears in Dorinda's eyes! When she spoke it was in, for her, a curiously hesitating tone. "Roscoe," she faltered, "I wonder if you'd be cross if I asked about what wan't any of my business. I'm old enough to be your grandma, pretty nigh, so I'm goin' to risk it. You used to be independent enough.
His full name was Luther Millard Filmore Rogers, and he was Dorinda's husband by law, and the burden which Providence, or hard luck, had ordered her to carry through this vale of tears. She was a good Methodist and there was no doubt in her mind that Providence was responsible. When she rose to testify in prayer-meeting she always mentioned her "cross" and everybody knew that the cross was Luther.
The kitchen door, however, was shut and from behind it I heard Dorinda's voice. "You can get right out of this house," she said. "I don't care if you've got a mortgage on the rest of the Cape! You ain't got one on this house, and you nor nobody else shall stay in it and talk that way. There's the door." "Dorindy!" wailed another voice Lute's. "You mustn't talk so to him! Don't you realize "
Did I look the incredible idiot that I knew myself to be? For I did know it. In spite of my determination not to admit it even in my innermost thoughts, I knew. I was in love with Mabel Colton madly, insanely, hopelessly in love with her, and should be until my dying day. I had played with fire too long. Before I could answer there came a knock at the door. It opened and Dorinda's head appeared.
Scarce half an hour ago I told her forlorn old highness that the fort was surely taken this time, and I think she hath buried herself in her chest." "Edelwald," said a voice from the tapestried pavilion. Lady Dorinda's head and hand appeared, with the curtains drawn behind them. As the soldier bent to his service upon the hand of the old maid of honor, she exclaimed whimsically, "What, Edelwald!
But that the millionaire's daughter had made a hit on the occasion of her first call was plain. Not only had Mother been favorably impressed, but even the practical and unromantic Dorinda's shell was dented. She deigned to observe that the young lady seemed to have "consider'ble common-sense, considerin' her bringin' up."
Mother loved flowers and I frequently brought her the old fashioned posies from Dorinda's little garden or wild blossoms from the woods and fields. But roses such as these were beyond my reach now-a-days. They grew in greenhouses, not in the gardens of country people. Mother did not move as I entered and I thought she was asleep. But as I bent over the roses she turned on the pillow and spoke.
Sitting opposite me, eating Dorinda's doughnuts and apple puffs and the fish that I I had cooked, was "Big Jim" Colton's daughter, the automobile girl, the heiress, the "incarnation of snobbery," the young lady whose father I had bidden go to the devil and to whom, in company with the rest of the family, I had many times mentally extended the same invitation.
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