“Oh, we can come back here for our meals till next week,” declared Leslie. “Then we’ll have time to get the dishes unpacked and washed and put in that lovely china-closet. Perhaps we’ll be able to get at that to-day. The curtains are every blessed one up, inside and out, now; and, if we succeed in getting that maid that you heard of, why, we’ll be all fixed for next week. I do wish those California things would arrive and we could get the rugs down. It doesn’t look homey without rugs and pictures.”
And, sure enough, they had not been at work ten minutes before the newly-acquired telephone bell rang, and the freight agent announced that their goods were at the station, and asked whether they wanted them sent up to-day, for he wanted to get the car out of his way.
In two hours more the goods arrived, and right in the midst of their unloading the delivery-wagons from the city brought a lot more articles; and so the little pink-and-white house was a scene of lively action for some time.
When the last truck had started away from the house, Allison drove the car up.
“Now, Cloudy, you jump in quick, and we’re going back to the inn for lunch. Then you lie down and rest 176 a whole hour, and sleep, or I won’t let you come back,” he announced. “I saw a tired look around your eyes, and it won’t do. We are not going to have you worked out, not if we stay in that old inn for another month. So there!”
He packed them in, and whirled them away to the inn in spite of Julia Cloud’s protest that she was not tired and wanted to work; but, when they came back at two o’clock, they all felt rested and fit for work again.
“Now, I’m the man, and I’m going to boss for a while,” said Allison. “You two ladies go up-stairs, and make beds. Here, which are the blankets and sheets? I’ll take the bundles right up there, and you won’t have any running up and down to do. These? All of them? All right. Now come on up, and I’ll be undoing the rugs and boxes from California. When you come down, they’ll be all ready for you to say where they shall go.”
Leslie and her aunt laughingly complied, and had a beautiful time unfolding and spreading the fine white sheets, plumping the new pillows into their cases, laying the soft, gay-bordered blankets and pretty white spreads, till each bed was fair and fit for a good night’s sleep. And then at the foot of each was plumped, in a puff of beauty, the bright satin eiderdowns that Leslie had insisted upon. Rose-color for Julia Cloud’s, robin’s-egg blue for Leslie’s, and orange and brown for Allison’s, who had insisted upon mahogany and quiet colors for his room. Leslie’s furniture was ivory-white, and Julia Cloud’s room was furnished in French gray enamel, with insets of fine cane-work. She stood a moment in the open doorway, and looked about the place; soft gray walls, with a trellis of roses at the 177 top, filmy white draperies with a touch of rose, a gray couch luxuriously upholstered, with many pillows, some rose, some gray, a thick, gray rug under her feet, and her own little gray desk drawn out conveniently when she wanted to write. Over all a flood of autumn sunshine, and on the wall a great water-color of a marvellous sunset that Leslie had insisted belonged in that room and must be bought or the furnishing would not be complete.
It filled Julia Cloud’s eyes with tears of wonder and gratitude to think that such a princess’s abode should have come to be her abiding-place after her long years of barren living in dreary surroundings. She lifted her eyes to the sunset picture on the wall, and it reminded her of the evening when she had stood at her own home window in her distress and sorrow, looking into the gray future, and had watched it break into rose-color before her eyes. For just an instant after Leslie had run down-stairs she closed her door, and dropped upon her knees beside the lovely bed to thank her Lord for this green and pleasant pasture where He had led her tired feet.
Allison had all the rugs spread out on the porch and lawn, and he and Leslie were hard at work giving them a good sweeping. They were wonderful rugs, just such as one would expect to come from a home of wealth where money had never been a consideration. Julia Cloud looked at them almost with awe, recognizing by instinct the priceless worth of them, and almost afraid at the idea of living a common, daily life on them. For Julia Cloud had read about rugs. She knew that in far lands poor peasant people, whole families, sometimes wove their history into them for a mere 178 pittance; and they had come to mean something almost sacred in her thoughts.