Penelope's Postscripts

“About the god—”

“Oh, yes!  I remember!  (Ka-choo!)  We will take the Irish cousins and the Scotch cousins and go all together to see the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey.  We’ll go to Bushey Park and see the chestnuts in bloom, and will dine at Number 10, Dovermarle Street—”

“I shall not go there, Billy,” said Himself.  “It was at Number 10, Dovermarle Street that your mother told me she wouldn’t marry me; or at least that she’d have to do a lot of thinking before she’d say Yes; so she left London and went to North Malvern.”

“Couldn’t she think in London?”  (This was Billy.)

“Didn’t she always want to be married to you?”  (This was Francie.)

“Not always.”

“Didn’t she like us?”  (Still Francie.)

“You were never mentioned,—not one of you!”

“That seems rather queer!” remarked Billy, giving me a reproachful look.

“So we’ll leave the Irish and Scotch uncles and aunts behind and go to North Malvern just by ourselves.  It was there that your mother concluded that she would marry me, and I rather like the place.”

“Mother loves it, too; she talks to me about it when she puts me to bed.”  (Francie again.)

“No doubt; but you’ll find your mother’s heart scattered all over the Continent of Europe.  One bit will be clinging to a pink thorn in England; another will be in the Highlands somewhere,—wherever the heather’s in bloom; another will be hanging on the Irish gorse bushes where they are yellowest; and another will be hidden under the seat of a Venetian gondola.”

“Don’t listen to Daddy’s nonsense, children!  He thinks mother throws her heart about recklessly while he loves only one thing at a time.”

“Four things!” expostulated Himself, gallantly viewing our little group at large.

“Strictly speaking, we are not four things, we are only four parts of one thing;—counting you in, and I really suppose you ought to be counted in, we are five parts of one thing.”

“Shall we come home again from the other countries?” asked Billy.

“Of course, sonny!  The little Beresfords must come back and grow up with their own country.”

“Am I a little Beresford, mother?” asked Francie, looking wistfully at her brother as belonging to the superior sex and the eldest besides.

“Certainly.”

“And is the Sally-baby one too?”

Himself laughed unrestrainedly at this.

“She is,” he said, “but you are more than half mother, with your unexpectednesses.”

“I love to be more than half mother!” cried Francie, casting herself violently about my neck and imbedding me in the haycock.

“Thank you, dear, but pull me up now.  It’s supper-time.”

Billy picked up the books and the rug and made preparations for the brief journey to the house.  I put my hair in order and smoothed my skirts.

“Will there be supper like ours in the other countries, mother?” he asked.  “And if we go in May time, when do we come back again?”

Himself rose from the ground with a luxurious stretch of his arms, looking with joy and pride at our home fields bathed in the afternoon midsummer sun.  He took the Sally-baby’s outstretched hands and lifted her, crowing, to his shoulder.

“Help sister over the stubble, my son.—We’ll come away from the other countries whenever mother says: ‘Come, children, it’s time for supper.’”

“We’ll be back for Thanksgiving,” I assured Billy, holding him by one hand and Francie by the other, as we walked toward the farmhouse.  “We won’t live in the other countries, because Daddy’s ‘sit-fast acres’ are here in New England.”

“But whenever and wherever we five are together, especially wherever mother is, it will always be home,” said Himself thankfully, under his breath.