("Us," according to Mother Beckett, meant Brian and me,
Father Beckett and herself, for we now constituted the "family"!)
Telegrams had given the Paris house-letting agency _carte blanche_ for
hasty preparations at the Chateau d'Andelle, where several old servants
had been kept on as caretakers: and being a spoiled American
millionairess, the little lady was confident that a week would see the
house aired, warmed, staffed, and altogether habitable.
"You wouldn't object to having that poor little girl stay with us, would
you, dear?" Mother Beckett asked me, patting my hand when she had
revealed her ideas concerning the O'Farrells.
"Oh, no," I answered, looking straight into her inquiring eyes, and
trying not to change colour. "But you shouldn't speak as if I had any
right----"
"You have every right!" she cut me short. "Aren't you our daughter?"
"I love you and Father Beckett enough to be your daughter," I said. "But
that gives me no right----"
"It does. Your love for us, and ours for you. I don't believe we could
have lived through our sorrow if it hadn't been for you and Brian. He
saved our reason by showing us what Jim would want us to do for the good
of others. And he taught us what we couldn't seem to realize fully,
through religion, that death doesn't count. Now, since I've been ill, I
guess you've saved my life. And much as I want to see Jim, I want even
more to live for Father. He needs me--and we both need you and Brian.
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