They fell into a despondent reverie, with their chins in their bosoms. There came a cheerful voice from the next room, but to them it brought no cheer; in their ears it sounded weak from the need of food and faint with piteous reproach.
“Father, aren't you coming to have luncheon with me?”
“Mr. Parker, what are we to do?” whispered the old man, hoarsely.
“Is it too far to take her to Briscoes'?”
“In the rain?”
“Take her with you to Tibbs's.”
“Their noon meal is long since over; and their larder is not—is not—extensive.”
“Father!” called the girl. She was stirring; they could hear her moving about the room.
“You've got to go in and tell her,” said the foreman, desperately, and together they stumbled into the room. A small table at one end of it was laid with a snowy cloth and there was a fragrance of tea, and, amidst various dainties, one caught a glimpse of cold chicken and lettuce leaves. Fisbee stopped, dumfounded, but the foreman, after stammeringly declining an invitation to partake, alleging that his own meal awaited, sped down to the printing-room, and seized upon Bud Tipworthy with a heavy hand.
“Where did all that come from, up there?”