“Nothing at this late hour. I had tea on the train. Where is my old friend Tom?”
“Oh, he and his mother both left at the end of the season. They are living in a one-room shanty in the woods west of this, and she is washing, and her boy fetches and carries the clothes backward and forward.”
“I will make them both happy by taking them back to the Isle of Storms, to the old home they have been pining for,” was Roma’s secret thought.
“You see,” said Mrs. Brown, “the house is nearly empty at this season. The few permanent tenants have their own servants, and cook their own meals. The restaurant requires but one cook and one waiter. Sarah Ann Syphax and her brother ’Pollyon fill these places. My own son, George, runs the elevator at present, but as he has gone to bed, ’Pollyon obligingly undertook to do it to-night, his duties at the restaurant being over for the evening.”
Mr. Merritt had seated himself in the big armchair, and was debating in his own mind whether he should tell Roma of the dispatch he had received that day announcing the discovery of little Owlet in the streets of New York. He decided not to do so that night, lest the news should deprive Roma of sleep, so he got up and said:
“Well, now, my dear, as I see you are safe under Mrs. Brown’s wing, I will bid you good-night.”
“But you will come to-morrow morning?” said Roma.
“I fear not. I have a case in court that may occupy me all day.”
“Then come and dine with me at seven in the evening.”
“With pleasure. Good-night, my dear. Get to bed as soon as you can.”