"She's so happy she don't know what to do," he murmured. "It'll be cheery for me, too, won't it? So long since I've had a little 'un about me."
"I'd like to go an' tell Lettie, gran'father," said Ailie, luxuriating in the new title, but before she had time to decide on going down, the door opened slightly, and Lettie's small voice said—
"Please may I come in?"
"Come in, deary," said Job. "Why it's quite lively, it is, to hear the little voices," muttered the old man, as he stitched away. "I've been lonesome at times, an' it's mighty pleasant."
"Lettie, ain't it beautiful?" cried Ailie. "I've been a-sleepin' in the cupboard, under the beautifullest thick coverin', an' had a breakfast o' real tea an' bread an' butter. And he says I'm to call him gran'father, and I means to do it always, 'cause he's as good as a real gran'father; an' I'm not going to the work'us to-morrow, nor next day, nor p'raps not at all."
This was jumping at conclusions more readily than Job Kippis had calculated upon; but he could not resolve to check her happy words, and he quieted himself with the remembrance that he had made no promises.
Lettie's pleasure almost equalled Ailie's own. And in a few minutes, the latter's excitement cooled down so far as to allow her to climb up into the window-seat with Lettie, where they sat watching Job, and wondering much at the steady progress of his work.
"Ain't it a bright red?" said Lettie.
"I'd sooner it wasn't so bright, for the sake o' my old eyes," said Job. "But I loves the old colour too."
"What old colour, gran'father?" asked Ailie.