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Lathrop was very gracious. “The neighborhood have accepted your daughter as Mrs. Flynn’s grandchild, Mr. Westabrook. But I guessed the truth from the first. I believed, however, that you wished the matter kept a secret and I have said nothing of it to anybody.”
“Got what?” Mr. Westabrook repeated impatiently. “That little job of the imagination that you put me on a few moments ago,” Billy answered mysteriously. “In a moment,” he added with a significant look at Maida. “You stay too, Dr. Pierce. I want your approval.” The door of the beautiful old house had opened and a man in livery came out to assist Maida.
“Buffalo” Westabrook stirred uneasily. His fierce, blue eyes retreated behind the frown in his thick brows until all you could see were two shining points. He watched Maida closely as she limped back to the car. “What are you thinking of, Posie?” he asked. “Oh, nothing, father,” Maida said, smiling faintly.
Westabrook bent on the Robin the most amused of his smiles. “Yes,” he said. “And an automobile?” Tim asked. Mr. Westabrook turned to the Bogle. “Yes,” he said, a little puzzled. “And did Maida’s mother have a gold brush with her initials in diamonds on it?” Rosie asked. Mr. Westabrook roared. “Yes,” he said. “And have you got twelve peacocks, two of them white?” Arthur asked. “Yes.”
“What can you do about that leg, Eli?” Mr. Westabrook asked Dr. Pierce once when Dicky swung across the room. “I’ve been thinking about that,” Dr. Pierce answered briskly. “I guess Granny and Annie will have to let me take Dicky for a while. A few months in my hospital and he’ll be jumping round here like a frog with the toothache.” “Oh, Dr. Pierce, do you think you can cure him?” Mrs.
And then, “Oh, my papa’s come!” she screamed; “my papa’s come to my Christmas tree after all!” There is so much to tell about the Christmas tree that I don’t know where to begin. First of all came Laura and Harold. Mrs. Lathrop stopped with them for a moment to congratulate Mrs. Dore on finding her mother. “Mrs. Lathrop, permit me to introduce my father, Mr. Westabrook,” Maida said. Mrs.
“Take my lamb away,” Granny wailed. “Sure, she’ll be tuk sick in those woild counthries! You’ll have to take me wid you, Misther Westabrook—only—only—” She did not finish her sentence but her eyes went anxiously to her daughter’s face. “No, Granny, you’re not to go,” Mr. Westabrook said decisively; “You’re to stay right here with your daughter and her children.
Her face fell. “I don’t see any,” she said mournfully. “And you’re losing your limp,” Mr. Westabrook said. Then catching sight of her woe-begone face, he laughed. “That’s because you’ve stopped smiling, you little goose,” he said. “Grin and you’ll see them.” Obedient, Maida grinned so hard that it hurt. But the grin softened to a smile of perfect happiness.
“Oh, father, buy me a pickled lime,” Maida pleaded. “I never had one in my life and I’ve been crazy to taste one ever since I read ‘Little Women.’” “All right,” Mr. Westabrook said. “Let’s come in and treat Maida to a pickled lime.” A bell rang discordantly as they opened the door. Its prolonged clangor finally brought the old lady from the room at the back.
“He’s one of the few reporters who can turn out a good story and tell it straight as I give it to him,” Maida had once heard her father say. Maida knew that Billy could turn out good stories—he had turned out a great many for her. “What has imagination to do with it?” Mr. Westabrook repeated.
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