She hurried into the supper room; Mrs.
Conyers sat alone.
"Mother," exclaimed Harriet with horror, "have you _eaten_ my
squabs?"
Mrs. Conyers stabbed at a little pile of bones on the side plate.
"This is what is left of them," she said, touching a napkin to her
gustatory lips. "There are your leaves," she added, pointing to a
little vase in front of Harriet's plate. "When is he going to send
you some more? But tell him we have geraniums."
The next day Ambrose received a note:
"Dear Mr. Webb: I have been thinking how pleasant my visit to you
was that morning. It has not been possible for me to get the
carriage since or I should have been out to thank you for your
beautiful present. The squabs appealed to me. A man who loves
them must have tender feeling; and that is what all my life I have
been saying: Give me a man with a heart! Sometime when you are in
town, I may meet you on the street somewhere and then I can thank
you more fully than I do now. I shall always cherish the memory of
your kind deed. You must give me the chance to thank you very
soon, or I shall fear that you do not care for my thanks. I take a
walk about eleven o'clock.
"Sincerely yours,
"HARRIET CRANE."
Ambrose must have received the note. A few weeks later Miss Anna
one morning received one herself delivered by a boy who had ridden
in from the farm; the boy waited with a large basket while she read:
"Dearest Anna: It is a matter of very little importance to mention
to you of course, but I am married.
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