Of course there was. She was a little
fool to be thinking about him at all. She would not think about him. If
he came, well and good. It would only be courteous of him to make a
farewell call at Ingleside where he had often been a guest. If he did
not come--well and good, too. It did not matter very much. Nobody was
going to fret. That was all settled comfortably--she was quite
indifferent--but meanwhile Jims was being fed with a haste and
recklessness that would have filled the soul of Morgan with horror. Jims
himself didn't like it, being a methodical baby, accustomed to
swallowing spoonfuls with a decent interval for breath between each. He
protested, but his protests availed him nothing. Rilla, as far as the
care and feeding of infants was concerned, was utterly demoralized.
Then the telephone-bell rang. There was nothing unusual about the
telephone ringing. It rang on an average every ten minutes at Ingleside.
But Rilla dropped Jims' spoon again--on the carpet this time--and flew
to the 'phone as if life depended on her getting there before anybody
else. Jims, his patience exhausted, lifted up his voice and wept.
"Hello, is this Ingleside?"
"Yes."
"That you, Rilla?" "Yeth--yeth." Oh, why couldn't Jims stop howling for
just one little minute? Why didn't somebody come in and choke him?
"Know who's speaking?"
Oh, didn't she know! Wouldn't she know that voice anywhere--at any
time?
"It's Ken--isn't it?"
"Sure thing.
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