Of Genoa la Superba not a word, except to say that he had seen a fine copy of one of Raphael's pictures for sale, which, if his father would send the money, he would buy, for the dining hall at Fair Acres.
Joyce had hardly patience to finish the letter; but her mother said:
"Give the letter to me, Joyce." And then she smoothed the thin sheet of foreign paper tenderly, and, refolding it, placed it in her large work-box, which stood unused by her side.
Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket, and said:
"Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools to-morrow?"
"You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into some interest about Melville's letter.
"You can do as you like—my day is over."
"Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It is—it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you—and upon us all—that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort."
"Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your father—and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his prime, to leave me desolate!"
"You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say; "and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to take up the business of the farm."