“Now,” said Louise pulling off her clean middy blouse, and starting upstairs, “what do you want me to do first?”
“Well, I thought maybe you’d like to dust these books and put them in the bookcase, dear; then they’ll be out of our way.”
Louise was rapidly buttoning herself into her old gingham work-dress when Cornelia came hurriedly from the kitchen and called up the stairs, a note of dismay in her voice:
“Louie, I don’t suppose you happen to know who owns this house, do you? It’s just occurred to me we’ll have to ask permission to build a fireplace, and that may upset the whole thing. Maybe the owner won’t want an amateur to build a fireplace in his house.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” shouted Louise happily, appearing at the stair-head. “Father owns it. It was the only thing he had left after he lost his money.”
“Father owns it?” said Cornelia incredulously. “How strange! A house like this! When did he buy it?”
“He didn’t buy it. He signed a note for a poor man; and then the man died, and never paid the money, and father had to take the house.”
“Oh!” said Cornelia thoughtfully, seeing more tragedy in the family history, and feeling a sudden great tenderness for the father who had borne so many disappointments and yet kept sweet and strong. “Well, then, anyhow we can do as we please with it,” she added happily. “I’m awfully glad. I guess we shan’t have to ask permission. Father ’ll like it all right.”
“Well, I rather guess he will, especially if it keeps Carey busy a little while,” said Louise.
They worked rapidly and happily together, and soon the books were in orderly rows in the bookcase.