Christmas morning dawned.
"I shall hear from Mrs. Kirkpatrick to-day," thought Dorothea cheerily. "Will my father go to Church with me?"
He had excused himself the Sunday before on the plea of bad weather and "indigestion." "Bad weather" did not keep the Colonel in when he wanted to secure fresh fish for dinner; but Church was another matter. Dorothea had had to content herself with Mrs. Stirring's companionship. The Church was very near, so near that she meant soon to plead for leave to go alone.
"Good morning, father," she said, in her brightest tone, when he came into the dining-room. He was punctual to the moment, yet Dorothea was before him.
An indistinct grunt served for "good morning." The Colonel was exercised in mind, to think that Dorothea should have already made the tea. It was no small trial to give up his tea-making to her, which he had done as in duty bound, he being man and she woman; and he liked to stand close by, watching with critical eyes, as she measured out each spoonful. On the Colonel's plate lay a neat white package, tied round with blue ribbon. He was far too much absorbed in the tea-question to notice it.
"How many spoonfuls did you put in, my dear?"
"Three, father. One for you, one for me, and one for the teapot. Mrs. Kirkpatrick always said—"
"Full spoons, but not piled up?" demanded the Colonel, wrinkling anxiously the skin of his face.
"Yes; just as you showed me."
"And the teapot,—you made the teapot hot first?"