We had made an exception, and done the most of our Saturday’s work on Friday morning. So now there was only a little dusting, with the usual making of beds, and all that. I had just finished the other rooms, when Louis left his, and went quietly down to the study, shutting himself in. To mamma’s satisfaction, he had eaten nearly all the breakfast she had prepared.
I put the room in its usual order. Oddly enough, I found a withered rose under the pillow, and it was still sweet. I remembered that Stephen was very fond of roses. There were ever so many small articles strewn about. I thought those big boys were as careless as the children.
Papa came in just before dinner was ready, and had a little chat with Louis, though the young man was not disposed to be social. At dinner he seemed dreadfully awkward and embarrassed, his sallow cheeks, flushing at the least word. Somehow I was glad Stuart was not there. Afterwards he went up to his room, and spent the whole afternoon alone.
We had rather a funny time. Stuart came in late, and insisted upon having his dinner in the kitchen, telling Ann two or three such laughable Irish stories, that they were friends straightway. Then he would insist upon carrying Fan’s basket when she was ready to start on her visitation, as she called it.
“It was as good as a play,” he said afterwards. “I thought I should smile audibly at that old lady—Mrs. Means, I believe you called her. She is an ungrateful wretch, Mrs. Endicott. ‘She did not like such light, chaffy bread; it had no heart. You might as well eat sawdust.’ And she wanted to know how many eggs were in the custard; and when people sent currants, she wished they would send sugar, too. ‘Nasty, sour things!’ Why, I had half a mind to hustle the gifts back in the basket, and bring them home.”
“We are not to get weary in well doing,” said mamma.
“I’m not sure but a little wholesome hunger would be good. And then that old Mrs. Bogert! Doesn’t she look funny there in the bed, with her little, wrinkled face and that flapping cap-ruffle. And her talk, and the queer way in which she keeps questioning her maid—‘Betty, how long is it since I was tuck sick?’ in that high, cracked voice, which sounds like a smashed hand organ with a monkey grinding it. ‘Betty, tell the gentleman how I fell down the cellar stairs. Betty, bring me my snuff-box; mebby the young gentleman will take a pinch.’”
He imitated Mrs. Bogert’s tone so exactly, that we could not help laughing.
“Did you take a pinch?” asked Nelly.
“Of course I did. And such sneezing!”