"So you picked 'em for the old man just as if he were company, dear child!—dressed up for him, too!"
Judith blushed guiltily. Her poor father was so easily deceived, that she felt ashamed of so many unnecessary falsehoods.
"I dressed up a little because I wanted to be like other girls."
"I wish you could be more like other girls," said the father, sighing, this time heavily enough; "but it's of no use wishing, is it, child?"
"I think that there is a great deal of use in it. If it were not for hoping and wishing and dreaming day-dreams, how could one live in this stupid place?"
The old man looked at his child wistfully. It was so many years since he had known a day-dream, that the idea bewildered him.
"It is so long since I was young," he said; "so very long. Perhaps I had them once, but I'm not sure—I'm not sure."
"I'm sure that the cakes will burn up if I stand here any longer," said Judith, on whom the sad pathos of her father's words made no impression. "I'll put them on the table at once. Call your friend in before they get heavy."
When the old man came in with Storms, he found Judith standing by the table, which she was surveying with no little pride. Unusual attempts had been made to decorate the room. The fireplace was turned into a tiny bower fairly set afire by a jar crowded full of great golden-hearted marigolds, that glowed through the soft greenness like flame.
All this surprised and delighted the old man. He turned with childlike admiration from the fireplace to the table, and from that to his daughter, who was now casting stolen and anxious glances into the old mirror opposite, over which was woven more delicate flowers, with the sprays of some feathery plant, heavy and rich with coral berries that scattered themselves in reflection on the glass.