“No, there’s only one pair, and I kept them for you next week.”
“We can’t keep anything for me, duckie dear,” said Cornelia, laughing. “Carey’s got to have clean sheets this very night. I have a hunch he’s coming home, and I want that room to be ready. That’s the first step in getting him back to us, you know.”
“Oh, well, all right,” said the little sister. “They are in the lower drawer of our bureau. How good that bread smells! My, it was nice of you to make it! And how dear the dining-table looks with that little flower in the middle. Some girls’ sisters would have thought that was unnecessary. They would have made us wait for pretty things. But you didn’t, did you? I guess that’s what makes you an interior decorator, isn’t it? Father and mother are awfully proud of you. They talked about it most every night before Carey got to going away, how you would be a great artist some day, and all that; and my! it most killed them to have to call you home.”
Louise chattered on, revealing many a household tragedy, until Cornelia was cut to the heart and wanted to drop down and cry; only she had too much at stake to give up now.
They went upstairs presently with the clean sheets, and the blankets that had almost miraculously got themselves dry owing to a bright sun and a strong west wind that had arrived soon after they were put out; and they had a beautiful time making that bed. Carey wouldn’t know himself in such a bed. Then they hunted out a bureau-scarf, and they went through the tousled drawers of the chiffonier and bureau, and put things to rights, laying out a pile of things that needed mending or washing, and making the room look cheery and bright.
“It ought to have something pretty like a flower here, too,” sighed Louise, taking a final glance around as Cornelia folded the old eider-down quilt in a self-respecting puff at the foot of the bed, and gave another pat to the clean white pillow. “I know!” said Louise suddenly flitting downstairs to her own room and hurrying back again with a small oval easel picture of her mother, dusting it carefully with her handkerchief as she came. “There! Won’t that look better?”
“Indeed it will,” said her sister, her eyes filling with tears as she looked into the loving eyes of the dear mother from whom she had been separated so long; “and perhaps it will do Carey good to look into his mother’s eyes when he comes home; who knows?”
So they went down together to put the finishing touches to the supper and to talk of many things. Louise even got around to the play and the costume she was going to try to make; and Cornelia delighted her heart by saying she was sure she had just the very costume in her trunk, one that she wore in a college play herself, and she would help her make it over to fit.
Everything was ready for supper at last, and it was time within three minutes for father’s car to arrive. Harry would likely meet him at the corner and come with him. Cornelia was taking up the pot-roast, and telling Louise about beating the mashed potatoes to make them lighter. The waffle-iron had been found under the piano-stool in the parlor, and was sizzling hot and well greased awaiting the fluffy batter. The hot maple syrup was on the table and everything exactly ready. Suddenly they heard a noisy automobile thunder up to the front of the house and pause, a clatter of voices, and the car thundered on again. Footsteps up the walk, and the front door banged open and shut; feet stamped up the stairs, while a faint breath of cigarette smoke trailed out and penetrated into the kitchen to mingle with the fragrance of the dinner. The two cooks stopped, and looked at each other understandingly.
“He’s come,” said the eyes of the little sister.