"Poor little fellow! Well, he shall be one of the two," she murmured, as she hurried out to Hannah.
"When they going, ma'am?" began Hannah, with an assurance born of long service.
"I—I haven't told them; I—well, I waited for Mr. Wentworth," confessed her mistress hastily. Then, with some dignity: "They can just as well have to-day outdoors, anyway."
It was nearly noon when Mr. Wentworth drove into the yard, gave his horse into the care of Bill, the man-of-all-work, and hurried into the house.
"Mary, Mary—where are you?" he called sharply. Never before had James
Wentworth broken the serene calm of his home with a voice like that.
"Yes, dear, I 'm here—in the dining-room."
Mrs. Wentworth's cheeks were flushed, her hair was disordered, and her neck-bow was untied; but she was smiling happily as she hovered over a large table laden with good things and set for six.
"You can sit down with them, James," she exclaimed; "I'm going to help
Hannah serve them."
"Mary, what in the world does this mean? The yard is overrun with screaming children! Have they sent us the whole asylum?" he demanded.
Mrs. Wentworth laughed hysterically.