"She can try," Mrs. Hepburn said sharply. "Don't you like games? I should have said you were by nature a bold gamester." She dealt the cards rapidly, and was soon absorbed in the game, though she quarreled with Ann occasionally, and knocked over the candlestick once. Adelaide played heroically, and was praised, though I knew she hated play.
Two hours passed before we were released. The fire went out, the candles burnt low, and whatever the contents of the silver porringer, they had long been cold. When Mrs. Hepburn saw us determined to go, she sent us to the sideboard for some refreshment. "My caudle is cold," taking off the cover of the porringer. "Why, Mari, what is this?" she said, as the woman made a noiseless entrance with a bowl of hot caudle.
"I knew how it would be," she answered, putting it into the hands of her mistress.
"I am a desperate old rake, you mean, Mari. There, take your virtue off, you appall me."
She poured the caudle into small silver tumblers, and gave them to us. "The Bequest of a Friend" was engraved on them. Her fingers were like ice, and her head shook with fatigue; but her voice was sprightly and her smile bright. Ann ate a good deal of sponge cake, and omitted the caudle, but I drank mine to the memory of the donor of the cup.
"You know that sherry, Ben," and Mrs. Hepburn nodded him toward a decanter. He put his hand on it, and took it away. "None to-night," he said. Mari came with our shawls, and we hastened away, hearing her shoot the bolt of the door behind us. Ben drew my arm in his, and the girls walked rapidly before us. It was a white, hazy night, and the moon was wallowing in clouds.
"Let us walk off the flavor of Hep's cards," said Adelaide, "and go to
Wolf's Point."
"Do you wish to go?" he asked me.
"Yes."
Ann skipped. A nocturnal excursion suited her exactly.