On the lower step Sunbeam sat, reading a book and I realised with startling vividness the difference between her and the creature I had once beheld in the halls of Hell. As I drew near she shut the book and ran up the few remaining steps to meet me.
“We’re having three extra things for tea,” she murmured confidentially, “because you are here. And mother has had word that father may be home in time for it too.” She held my hand and danced down in the best of good spirits by my side.
She led me to the room where tea was laid, and the greatest things I noticed were cheerfulness and comfort round about.
A glorious fire was burning, for it was that time of year when the air was very sharp, and in front of it a noble hound was lying fast asleep.
The table had been laid with the brightness characteristic of all well-laid tea-tables. Yet never before had I looked forward with such enjoyment to a meal.
The room was empty when we entered, so Sunbeam took the opportunity to explain a few facts.
“That is quite extra,” she said, pointing with a decided finger to a salad. “And so is that,” and she next indicated a fine salmon. “And this cake is just the same as we have on birthdays—only it’s no one’s birthday to-day, unless you’d like to call it yours.”
I assented, and looking round saw on a plate a small bun which, to do it justice, had not quite the elegance which characterised the other eatables.
I noticed that Sunbeam’s eyes dwelt lovingly in that direction.
“I made that,” she explained. “It’s quite fresh to-day. I’ve made one ever so long, hoping father would come home. He doesn’t know I can bake yet, we’ve kept it quite a secret.”