Lorimer. "This sounds like a plunge into sentiment."
Nevertheless he rose with a tolerant twinkle and seated himself in the
large easy-chair before the fire. It was the only really comfortable
chair in the room. He kept it for his moments of reflection.
Mrs. Lorimer sat down at his feet on the fender-curb, her tiny hand still
clinging to his. "This is a real treat," she said, laying her head
against his knee with a gesture oddly girlish. "It isn't often, is it,
that we have it all to ourselves?"
"What is it you have to say to me?" he enquired.
She drew his hand down gently over her shoulder, and held it against her
cheek. There fell a brief silence, then she said with a slight effort:
"Your idea of a mother's help has worked wonderfully, Stephen. As you
know, I was averse to it at first but I am so glad you insisted. Dear
Avery is a greater comfort to me than I can possibly tell you."
"Avery!" repeated the Reverend Stephen, with brows elevated. "I presume
you are talking of Mrs. Denys?"
"Yes, dear. I call her Avery. I feel her to be almost one of ourselves."
There was just a hint of apology in Mrs. Lorimer's voice. "She has
been--and is--so very kind to me," she said. "I really don't know what
the children and I would do without her."
"I am glad to hear she is kind," said Mr. Lorimer, with a touch
of acidity.
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