In December Dr. Stewart came on again to take his daughter back for the holidays. He called at once to see Mr. Burton, and the two had a long conference in the studio, while Susan feverishly moved from room to room downstairs, taking up and setting down one object after another in the aimless fashion of one whose fingers are not controlled by the mind.
When the doctor had gone, Susan did not wait for Daniel Burton to seek her out. She went at once to the studio.
"No, he had nothing new to say about Keith," began the man, answering the agonized question in her eyes before her lips could frame the words.
"But didn't he say NOTHIN'?"
"Oh, yes, he said a great deal—but it was only a repetition of what he had said before in the letter." Daniel Burton spoke wearily, constrainedly. His face had grown a little white. "The doctor bought the big sofa in the hall downstairs, and the dropleaf table in the dining-room."
"Humph! But will he PAY anything for them things?"
"Yes, he will pay well for them. And—Susan."
"Yes, sir." Something in the man's face and voice put a curious note of respect into Susan's manner as sudden as it was unusual.
"I've been intending to tell you for some time. I—I shall want breakfast at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I—I am going to work in McGuire's store."
"You are goin' to—what?" Susan's face was aghast.