"What shall I read to-night, Mattie?" she asked. For Mattie must always have something read to her out of the New Testament before she went to sleep; Mr. Spelt had inaugurated the custom.
"Oh, read about the man that sat in his Sunday clothes," said Mattie.
"I don't know that story," returned Lucy.
"I wish dear mother was here," said Mattie, with the pettishness of an invalid. "He would know what story I mean—that he would."
"Would you like to see Mr. Spelt?" suggested Lucy. "He was asking about you not an hour ago."
"Why didn't he come up, then? I wonder he never comes to see me."
"I was afraid you weren't strong enough for it, Mattie. But I will run and fetch him now, if he's not gone."
"Oh, yes; do, please. I know he's not gone, for I have not heard his step yet. I always watch him out of the court when I'm in bed. He goes right under me."
Lucy went, and Mr. Spelt came gladly.
"Well, mother," said Mattie, holding out a worn little cloud of a hand, "how do you do?"