Charlie was off into a brown study.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "isn't it odd? Florence's name is Darol, and there is my Mr. Darol. Why, I do believe they look something alike,—Flossie's husband, I mean."
To which rather incoherent statement no one was able to reply.
"Perhaps we had better put my room in order," suggested Hal, returning to the prose of housekeeping.
Dot found some clean sheets and pillow-cases. Charlie followed them, and assisted a little. The bed was freshly made, a clean napkin spread over the worn washstand, towels as white as snow, and every thing neat, if not elegant.
"Though, of course, it will look very common to Flossy," said Dot with a sigh. "I feel almost afraid of her, she is so grand."
"But she isn't a bit better than we are," returned Charlie stoutly. "I think Hal is really the noblest of the lot, and the most unfortunate. But I told Mr. Darol all about the green-house, Hal!"
Hal colored. Charlie was a warm and courageous champion.
Then they went down stairs. Florence still sat at the head of Granny's bed, and had been crying. Hal remembered his hard thoughts of Flossy the night before with a pang of regret; for, though they had been poor and burdened with cares, death had not come nigh them, but had taken Florence's first-born in the midst of her wealth and ease.
Charlie went round to them. "Florence," she began a little timidly, "do you live in New York?"