Lucy was not up stairs with her grandmother when Thomas went into the room. She had arrived some time before, and had ran across to the bookseller's to put Mattie to bed, according to promise, leaving the door just ajar that she might not trouble her grandmother to come down and open it for her. She had come home hoping against hope that Thomas must by this time have complied, in some way or other, with her request—must have written to his father, or, at least, so positively made up his mind to tell him on his return, that he would be at the station to meet her with the assurance, or would appear in Guild Court some time during the evening with a response to her earnest appeal. When she had put the child to bed, she lingered a few moments with the bookseller in his back parlor, for the shop was shut up, telling him about Mattie, and listening to what little bits of news the worthy man had to impart in return. Their little chat ran something in this way:
"And how have you been, Mr. Kitely?"
"Oh, among the middlins, miss, thank you. How's yourself been?"
"Quite well, and no wonder."
"I don't know that, miss, with two young things a pullin' of you all ways at once. I hope Mattie wasn't over and above troublesome to you."
"She was no trouble at all. You must have missed her, though."
"I couldn't ha' believed how I'd miss her. Do you know the want of her to talk to made me do what I ain't done for twenty year?"
"What's that, Mr. Kitely? Go to church of a Sunday?"
"More than that, miss," answered the bookseller, laughing—a little sheepishly. "Would you believe it of me? I've been to church of a week-day more than once. Ha! ha! But then it wasn't a long rigmarole, like—"
"You mustn't talk about it like that—to me, you know, Mr. Kitely."