“Yes,” assented Harcourt, in a low tone, “that is all she has to comfort her now—the prospect of the future better life.”
“Many young people, as well as the aged, have nothing else to hope for.”
“That is indeed true, Annie; but I do not know how so good and happy a woman as yourself should have found it out,” said Harcourt.
“Come in, Mr. William, and sit down and rest yourself, while I make a cup of tea that will refresh you after your journey.”
“No, thank you. Not now. I only came to see how you are, and to get my key,” replied the young man.
“But your room has been shut up, and without a fire in it for nearly a month, and though I have aired it two or three times a week I know it is cold and damp, and you are just off a long journey. You had better come in, and let me get you a cup of tea, and after you have taken it you will feel better able to tackle with a damp room and a cold hearth. Come in, now. Why not? Are we not all brethren and sisters?”
“Oh! my dear Annie, you are really too good for this world,” said Harcourt, very stupidly, it must be admitted, for he even thought so himself, yet in perfect good faith.
“Nonsense! There are no provisions laid up in your room, either, and I’d like to know what you expect to do about supper at this time of night, when all the stores are closed?”
Harcourt smiled, and submitted.
Although Annie Moss called her neighbor so formally “Mr. William,” she really considered him as something like a foster son.