Ransom by Grace Livingston Hill Page B

not your type of things. I would rather you had things of your own that fitted your character.”
    Christobel was silent a moment, thinking this over.
    â€œNo, I would rather not have them!” she said gravely, trying to keep her utter distaste for them out of her voice. “Why don’t you send them—or some of them at least—to her mother? Wouldn’t she like to have them?”
    The father looked at her thoughtfully.
    â€œI hadn’t thought of her. What could she do with them? Take that for instance.” He touched with his toe the lovely red velvet that poured itself in a brilliant pool on the floor. “How would Mrs. Harrower look in that?”
    Christobel’s lips almost quivered into a smile to think of the meek, petted little old woman, with her faded eyes and hair and her indifference to the world in general, arrayed in that sophisticated frock.
    â€œShe could sell it,” said Christobel practically. “It is a lovely frock and imported, I guess. There are places where they pay good prices for such things. I know, because the girls at school get most of their evening dresses at such places. They’ll get a dress that originally sold for a hundred or two hundred sometimes for forty or fifty dollars.”
    â€œWell, Mrs. Harrower wouldn’t know how to make any such deal, and I’m not sure under the circumstances that I care to assist her financially any more than I have been compelled to already. If you can discover anybody who will buy any of these things, you have my permission to sell them. Just pick out a few plain things that the old lady might like and put them in a box, and we’ll ship it to her. For the rest, I don’t care what you do with it. Come. Let’s get out of here. Suppose we go over to my room and talk things over.”
    Mr. Kershaw snapped out the lights and locked the door, and they went into his big room.
    The children stood, almost embarrassed for a moment. They felt so little acquainted with this new father who was so much more friendly than he had ever been before. Then, as he turned on a low reading lamp that made a pleasant dimness in the room, he came toward them and flung an arm about each of them and drew them toward the wide leather couch.
    â€œCome, let’s sit down and get acquainted,” he said with sudden effort, as if he were longing to get somehow nearer to them.
    Christobel nestled down with her head on her father’s shoulder, and even Randall seemed not averse to being drawn close also. They sat there in utter silence for a few minutes, a kind of peace coming over them after the troubles of the day. Then the father spoke.
    â€œI hate to have you go back,” he said. “We ought to stay nearer together, see more of each other.” His tone was almost shy.
    After a minute, Christobel spoke.
    â€œFather, why do I have to go back? Why can’t I stay here with you? This is my last year. The rest of the semester isn’t going to be much but getting ready for commencement, rehearsing plays, and writing essays and all that. What good is it, anyway?”
    â€œOh, but—” objected the father, “why, of course you need to graduate. It’s the thing to do.”
    â€œBut why, Father dear?” she urged.
    â€œWell,” said the father, trying to think of some suitable reason, “everybody has to graduate. They graduate and then they come out. One of your stepmother’s reasons for buying this great house was that it was almost time for you to come out, and we would need a place like this to do it properly. And of course, it might look rather strange to come out without first graduating. People might think you couldn’t pass your examinations or something.”
    â€œWhat people? Why do we care what people think? I have passed my examinations. I got good marks, too. Why should I have to go through all the rest? I’d much,
much
rather stay with you.”