“Hurt? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only know that my mistress wants to see you, for some reason or another, and that it’s mighty cold standing here. Come in. Yes. I suppose she wants you both. She said ‘children.’”
Molly whisked off Towsley’s skate, then her own, and hastily dragged him after her up into the house.
“That’s so. I suppose it is cold standing, though we didn’t notice it skating. We did have such fun. Come, boy; don’t be bashful. It’s the same lady, isn’t it?”
“Yes. ’Spose it is. ’Tain’t the same house, though.”
“That’s no matter. It’s but a house, after all’s said and done. A little bigger and nicer than we’re used to, but my father says folks are the same sort all the world round, and he knows. John Johns knows a heap. Come on. Just mind your manners, sharp.”
Thus beguiled, Towsley shuffled on his worn shoes after his more confident guide into a distant, sunny back parlor. There Miss Armacost had laid aside her hat and wrap and sat resting in an easy-chair. In its depths she looked even smaller and frailer than she had done out of doors, but also very much more determined and at home.
“Just like she’d been sitting in big chairs and giving orders all her life,” as Molly afterward expressed it.
“Did you want us, ma’am?”
“Yes, I did. You may sit down.”
“Thank you. Sit down, Towsley.”