Those tubs of roses Hazel had touched upon buried their thorns sharply
in Eulalie's memory. That any son of Adam could see her bewildering
self and then give roses to Elvira was preposterous--besides, the
mills would follow. An end must be to the folly.
She invoked Hugh Griswold's assistance. He ought to see that the roses
might crowd him away from his inheritance.
"I'm afraid I ought to tell you something," she regretted, amiably. "I
hear Elvira is plainly fishing for your uncle."
Hugh grinned comfortably.
"If there is any fishing doing, I rather reckon it's on uncle E.'s
side of the pond," he said, easily.
"She has no business to let him, then!" Eulalie's eyes began to
sparkle out blue fire. "A sly old minx she is! She----"
Hugh was looking intently at her, as if he saw her in some weird, new
light. She tapered off suddenly, and grew plaintive.
"I want her back here, anyway. I'm not well, and Marion is cross to
me."
"I'll stop and tell her so as I go through Lindale, on my annual
camping tramp--shall I?"
"Oh, yes, do--please do," Eulalie pleaded, sweetly.
During the few days before his departure she grew pale and languid,
and reminded him frequently of his promise.
"Be sure and send her right home," she urged. "Tell her I'm sick and
miserable, and Marion doesn't treat me well."