Our train left Grand Central Station at two o'clock next afternoon;
it was bitter cold, I remember, and I drove to the station,
smothered in furs. But our car was wonderfully cozy and comfortable,
and it warmed my heart to see how proud Dad was of it: I must
inspect the kitchen; this was my stateroom, did I like it? I mustn't
judge Amos by his appearance, but the way he could cook--he was a
wonder at making griddle cakes. Did I still like griddle cakes? "And
do look at the books and magazines Mr. Porter brought. And a box of
chocolates, too. Wasn't it kind of him?" Dear Dad! He was like a
child with a new toy.
I'm sure he enjoyed every minute of the trip. Mr. Porter played
cribbage with him (Dad adores cribbage) by the hour; they talked
railroads, and politics, and mining--I don't think Dad had been so
happy in years. I know I had never been so happy, for I was sure Mr.
Porter loved me. I couldn't help being sure; his heart was in his
eyes every time he looked at me.
When we started from New York, we were Mr. Middleton, and Mr.
Porter, and Miss Middleton to one another; at Chicago, it was Tom,
and Blakely, and Miss Middleton; I became Elizabeth in Utah (I made
him call me that.) And when we reached Nevada.....
It happened so naturally, so sweetly. Dad was taking a nap after
luncheon, and Blakely and I were sitting on the rear platform of our
car, the last car in the train. It was a heavenly day of blue sky
and sunshine; the desert was fresh from recent rain. And then a few,
dear, faltered words changed the desert into a garden that reached
to the rim of the world.
"I love you. I didn't mean to tell you quite yet, but I.....
I....."
"I know. And it makes me so happy."
* * * * *
You never saw anybody so delighted as Dad was when we told him.
"This makes me glad clear through," he said. "Blakely, boy, I
couldn't love you more if you were my own son. Elizabeth, girl, come
and kiss your old Daddy."
"And you aren't surprised, Dad?"
"Not a bit."
"He's known I've loved you, all along. Haven't you, Tom?"
"I may have suspected it."
"But I'm sure he never dreamed I could possibly care for you," I
said. And then, because I was too happy to do anything else, I went
to my state-room, and had a good cry.
I have read somewhere that Love would grow old were it not for the
tears of happy women.