There was a savory fragrance in the sitting-room. Chilian came in, looking weary with his long ride.
"It is almost wintry cold," he said, holding his hands to the fire. "Have you had a nice day, little girl?"
"Yes;" glancing up with a smile.
They did justice to Bessy's nice supper. Chilian had seen Cousin Giles, who sent remembrances to them all, and was coming up some day to see Letty Orne's little girl. Chilian found there was a good deal of business to do. For a while his days of leisure and ease would be over.
Then he brought out a Boston paper and read them some of the news. Miss Eunice went on with her fringe. Elizabeth was knitting a sock for Chilian out of fine linen yarn, spun by herself, and she put pretty open-work stitches all up the instep. For imported articles were still dear, and there was a pride in the women to do all for themselves that they could. Cynthia leaned her head on Rachel's lap and went asleep.
"Do hear that rain! The storm has begun in good earnest."
It was rushing like a tramp of soldiers, flinging great sheets against the closed shutters, and the wind roared in the chimney like some prisoned spirit.
"Wake up, Cynthia, and say good-night."
Elizabeth watched the child. Her theory was that children should be put to bed early and not allowed to lie around on any one's lap. There was always a tussle of wills when you roused them. She drew herself up with a kind of severe mental bracing and awaited the result, glad Chilian was there.
Rachel toyed with the hair, patted the soft flushed cheek, and took the hands in hers.