A
bewildered look came into Nancy's eyes as she went on
investigating her bulging stocking--gloves, and silk hosiery, and
new little enamelled pins for her collars, and the piano score of
the opera she so loved--where had the money come from?
"My firm gave us each ten," Bert explained, grinning.
"And you spent it ALL on me!" Nancy said, stricken. "You poked
about and got me every blessed thing I ever wanted in this world--
you darling!"
"Why not?" he asked. "You're the only thing I have, Nance! And
such LITTLE things, dear."
"It isn't the things--it's your thinking of them," Nancy said.
"And eating wretched lunches while you planned them! You make me
cry--and meanwhile, my beloved little chicken will roast himself
dry!"
She rushed into her kitchen. Bert rushed after her; his days at
home were a succession of interruptions for Nancy, no topic was
too insignificant for their earnest discussion, and no pleasure
too small to share. To-day the chief object of their interest was
his mother's Christmas present to him, a check for fifty dollars,
"for my boy's winter coat."
They looked at the slip of paper at regular intervals. To Bert it
brought a pleasant thought of the thin, veiny hand that had penned
it, the little silk-clad form and trimly netted gray hair.
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