“Hello, is that 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. I’m here for a look-in. Can I come up to Ingleside tonight and see you?”
“Of courthe.”
Had he used “you” in the singular or plural sense? Presently she would wring Jims’ neck—oh, what was Ken saying?
“See here, Rilla, can you arrange that there won't be more than a few dozen people round? Understand? I can’t make my meaning clearer over this bally rural line. There are a dozen receivers down.”
Did she understand! Yes, she understood.
“I’ll try,” she said tremulously.
“I’ll be up about eight then. By-by.”
Rilla hung up the ‘phone and flew to Jims. But she did not wring that injured infant’s neck. Instead she snatched him bodily out of his chair, crushed him against her face, kissed him rapturously on his milky mouth, and danced wildly around the room with him in her arms. After this Jims was relieved to find that she returned to sanity, gave him the rest of his dinner properly, and tucked him away for his afternoon nap with the little lullaby he loved best of all. She sewed at Red Cross shirts for the rest of the afternoon
