“Yes, sir,” she said, stroking her pretty curls; “the ogre said you were to go up.”
“Are you—sure?” I said.
“Sure? Of course. There, go along, or you’ll wake mamma.”
I went softly upstairs, with my heart beating with excitement, turning my head, though, as I closed the door, and seeing Linny drawing her letter hastily from under the blotting-paper.
It was before the shabby door of a sloping-roofed back attic that I paused for a moment to knock, Stephen Hallett’s clear, calm voice uttering a loud “Come in,” and I entered to find him seated before a large old deal kitchen table, upon which were strewed various tools, pieces of iron and brass, old clock-wheels, and spindles. At one end was fitted a vice, and at the other end what seemed to be the model of some machine—or rather, a long, flat set of clock-works, upon which Hallett was evidently engaged.
“Well, Antony,” he said, looking up at me in a weary, disappointed way; “glad to see you, my boy.”
“Why, you are busy,” I exclaimed, looking with all a boy’s curiosity at the model, or whatever it was before me.
“Yes,” he said, “I generally am. Well,” he added, after a pause, as he seemed to derive rest and amusement from my curiosity, “what do you think of my sweetheart?”
“Your sweetheart?”
“Yes, my sweetheart, of which poor mother is so jealous. There she is.”