“I wish you wouldn’t be so melancholy, mother. You’re enough to put a whole regiment of soldiers out of spirits, let alone a poor girl. Here, hold your tongue now. Here she comes.”
Footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the foot was more springy than it had been of late, as Mary entered the room.
“Ready for supper, father dear?” said Mary, going behind his chair, placing her arms about his neck, and drawing his head back so that she could lay her cheek against his forehead.
“Ready, my pet? Of course I am;” and “Rob—in—er—her—dair,” he sang. “That’s the way. I’m glad to hear you tune up a bit. It’s like the birds in spring corn: and mother wants it, for of all the melancholy old women that ever lived, she’s about the worst.”
Click!
“Hallo! Who’s that at the gate? Just look, dear.”
Mary went to the window, but there was no need, for she knew the step; and as her mother glanced at her, she saw the girl’s face harden as she said—
“Mr Barnett, father.”
“Humph! What does he want to-night?” muttered Ellis. “Let him in, my dear; and, Mary, my girl, don’t run away out of the room.”
Mary was silent, and a tapping came at the door, evidently administered by the head of a stick.