Mother Carey's Chickens
perienced enough to keep this strange young man in order, and just as she was meditating some blighting retort he went on:—
"Who is that altogether adorable, that unspeakably beautiful lady in black?—the one with the pearl comb that looks like a crown?"
"That's mother," said Nancy, glowing.
"I thought so. At least I did n't know any other way to account for her."
"Why does she have to be accounted for?" asked Nancy, a little bewildered.
"For the same reason that you do," said the audacious youth. "You explain your mother and your mother explains you, a little, at any rate. Where is the celebrated crimson rambler, please?"
"You are sitting on it," Nancy answered tranquilly.
Tom sprang away from the trellis, on which he had been half reclining. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Why did n't you tell me? I have a great affection for that rambler; it was your planting it that first made me—think favorably of you. Has it any roses on it? I can't see in this light."
"It is almost out of bloom; there may be a few at the top somewhere; I'll look out my window to-morrow morning and see."
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