Mrs. Reed was a little woman with a slight, girlish figure, and a sweet-tempered rather than a pretty countenance, around which waved a quantity of soft, fair hair, which made her look younger than her years. She had been a hospital nurse before her marriage, and had brought her husband no money, but those who knew her well declared she was a fortune to him in herself; for she had a shrewd head for business, and had always kept his books and managed his home most capably; in short, she had proved a helpmeet to him in the truest sense of the word. Now, as she met her husband's eyes, she said:—
"I, too, hope we shall not be disturbed to-night. It seems an age since we three enjoyed a chat together, though in reality you have been only absent from home a week. The time dragged while you were away, did it not, Ann?"
"Yes," Ann assented; "you were very good to write every day, father, and the cream you sent us was delicious, and arrived quite fresh."
She was standing before her father, a slight, tall figure—though barely fifteen she was half a head taller than her mother—with a bright flush on her cheeks, and her eyes—very like her father's they were—shining with happiness. Though she could not be called pretty, there was something wonderfully attractive in her face, in its frank expression and lack of self-consciousness.
"It's pleasant to know one has been missed," Dr. Reed said, in a satisfied tone; "and I'm glad to be at home again. I should have been back on Saturday if I had not run against my old friend, Clement Wyndham. He asked me to spend Sunday with him, and I was glad to be able to accept his invitation and talk over old times. I was grieved, though, to see how much he has changed; he looks more than his age. Poor Wyndham!"
Ann seated herself on a stool at her father's feet, and leaned her head against his knee. "Why do you say 'poor Wyndham,' father?" she inquired.
"Because I am afraid life has not treated him very kindly, my dear. He is a journalist, a clever fellow, but somehow he has not managed to make much headway in his profession, and he has a long family—three girls and two boys—and, I fear, rather an incapable sort of woman for a wife. Mrs. Wyndham seems very nice, but I imagine she is a poor manager; indeed their home at Streatham showed me that fact plainly enough. I dined there, and made the acquaintance of the whole family—good-looking, intelligent children all of them. The eldest girl, Ruth, appeared very helpful; I noticed the servant consulted her about several matters, and her father told me that she was his right hand. She is only about your age, Ann; but there is a little worried pucker between her brows already, as though the cares of life weigh upon her mind. Next to Ruth in age come Violet and Madge—extremely pretty children they are; then come the boys who are twins and very fine little fellows indeed. The children attend day schools at Streatham; their school bills must take a substantial slice out of their father's income."
"Yes, indeed," agreed Mrs. Reed. "Mr. Wyndham is a journalist, you say?"
"Yes. He has a post on a daily paper, he has had it for years in fact, but it leads to nothing better. Being a married man with a long family he cannot afford to strike for a larger salary, though he is most inadequately paid for his work. He told me that he has had to stand quietly by and see less efficient men pushed into lucrative posts through interested friends. It must have been very hard lines for him."
"What a shame to treat him so unfairly!" Ann cried warmly, her eyes darkening with indignation. "Is he, then, so very poor, father?"