'Well, father,' she said, smiling yet, 'there was the box. I couldn't carry the box.'
'I reckon thou couldst ha' hired a lad to carry it for sixpence.'
She did not reply. The cabman had gone to his vehicle.
'Art'na going to pay th' cabby?'
'I've paid him, father.'
'How much?'
She paused. 'Eighteen-pence, father.' It was a lie; she had paid two shillings.
She went eagerly into the kitchen, and then into the parlour, where tea was set for one. Agnes was not there. 'Her's upstairs,' Ephraim said, meeting Anna as she came into the lobby again. She ran softly upstairs, and into the bedroom. Agnes was replacing ornaments on the mantelpiece with mathematical exactitude; under her arm was a duster. The child turned, startled, and gave a little shriek.
'Eh, I didn't know you'd come. How early you are!'
They rushed towards each other, embraced, and kissed. Anna was overcome by the pathos of her sister's loneliness in that grim house for fourteen days, while she, the elder, had been absorbed in selfish gaiety. The pale face, large, melancholy eyes, and long, thin arms, were a silent accusation. She wondered that she could ever have brought herself to leave Agnes even for a day. Sitting down on the bed, she drew the child on her knee in a fury of love, and kissed her again, weeping. Agnes cried too, for sympathy.