The confidential talk between mother and daughter at noon was not the last to take place that day. At nightfall—eight o'clock in this pleasant season—Jane was saying her prayers beside her bed, while her mother stood close by, waiting to put out the light.
“An' bless mamma and papa an'—” Jane murmured, coming to a pause. “An'—an' bless Willie,” she added, with a little reluctance.
“Go on, dear,” said her mother. “You haven't finished.”
“I know it, mamma,” Jane looked up to say. “I was just thinkin' a minute. I want to tell you about somep'm.”
“Finish your prayers first, Jane.”
Jane obeyed with a swiftness in which there was no intentional irreverence. Then she jumped into bed and began a fresh revelation.
“It's about papa's clo'es, mamma.”
“What clothes of papa's? What do you mean, Jane?” asked Mrs. Baxter, puzzled.
“The ones you couldn't find. The ones you been lookin' for 'most every day.”
“You mean papa's evening clothes?”