“You said that before; but it isn’t paint,” she answered. “I’ve another feeling now than a desire to sleep.”
“So have I—disinclination to meet the priest. Is that what you mean?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, indeed, I mean a desire to eat. I was never so hungry in my life.”
“It’s a very human feeling; but I wish you hadn’t said anything about it,” I replied.
“I’m a very human individual, if it comes to that. I declare I could even relish some of that awful woman’s black bread.”
Most aptly the housekeeper came to tell us she had prepared some breakfast for us in the opposite room. “The good Father would have wished this,” she said. “It is the best I can do for the moment.”
Eggs, ham, potted meats, good white wheaten bread, butter and delicious coffee needed no sort of apology. It was like a feast for the gods in our famished eyes; and down we sat at once. We had nearly finished and were lingering over the coffee and laughing carelessly together at something which Volna had said—I had my cup in my hand, I remember—when the door was opened all unexpectedly and the priest entered.
I don’t think I ever felt so foolish and confused in my life. I set the cup down, flushed to the roots of my hair, and rose with a most shame-faced, down-at-heel manner, stammering some kind of apology, as I met his grave, protesting, surprised look.
But Volna came to the rescue with magnificent self-possession. Girls have these inspirations and beat us hollow in such cases. Without a sign of awkwardness or self-consciousness she rose and went up to him, smiling winsomely.
“Father Ambrose, I am in sore trouble and have come to ask my dear mother’s old friend to help me.”