She set the table with hasty yet careful hand. There was only one servant in the house for all the work, unless one counted an imp of a boy of twelve, who answered the door to the patients, and cleaned the doctor’s hard-worked bicycle, and occasionally took a weed out of the garden, and occasionally cleaned a window.
Knife and fork and spoon and fork, knife and fork and spoon and fork, up and down the long table Phyl went with her silver basket until ten places were set. Yellow chrysanthemums, grasses and autumn leaves [195] ]made a feast for the eyes in the centre; the cloth was snowy; the room, though plainly furnished, had a sunshiny, fresh, and dainty look that did the doctor’s wife credit, considering the size of the double family.
[Buried in Comin’ thro’ the Rye.]
Phyl’s dress came down to her shoes, and she was still conscious of it. Her fair, wavy hair had not been twisted into that knot long enough for her to feel sure it would not come tumbling over her shoulders if she ran. Her complexion was still somewhat pale, but at eighteen her early delicacy was almost outgrown. Blue eyes looked thoughtfully out upon the world, but fun found plenty of [196] ]room to dance there too. There was a look of happiness about her mouth.
A little boy came into the room—Freddie, who had been a mere baby when Mrs. Wise died, but was now eight.
“Go and wash your face, Freddie,” Phyl said, at the sound of his footstep, “and be sure to scrub your hands well—dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
But Freddie obtruded a face ashine with cleanliness, and a pair of passable hands, upon her notice, which had not been given to him before.
“I have washed myself, Phyl,” he said mildly.
Phyl glanced at him and laughed.