“Misfortunes! why, they have been in poverty this many a year. My brother Terry tells me that the Kelletts had n't above two hundred a year, and that latterly they lost even this.”
“Well, it is a come-down in the world, anyhow,” said Hawkshaw, sighing, “and I must say she bears it well.”
“If she only feels it as little as she appears to do everything else, the sacrifice doesn't cost her much,” said the lady, tartly. “I told her she was to come here last Sunday and take charge of the children; she never came; and when I questioned her as to the reason, she only smiled and said, 'She never thought of it; in fact, she was too happy to be alone on that day to think of anything.' And here she comes now, nearly an hour late.” And, as she spoke, a weary step ascended the steps to the door, and an uncertain, faltering hand raised the knocker.
“It is nigh eleven o'clock, Miss Kellett,” said Mrs. Hawkshaw, as she met her on the stairs.
“Indeed—I am so sorry—I must have forgotten—I don't think I knew the hour,” said the other, stammeringly.
“Your hour is ten, Miss Kellett.”
“I think so.”
“How is your father, Miss Kellett?” asked the alderman, abruptly, and not sorry to interpose at the juncture.
“He is well, sir, and seems very happy,” said she, gratefully, while her eyes lighted up with pleasure.
“Give him my regards,” said Hawkshaw, good-naturedly, and passed down the stairs; while his wife coldly added,—