"It—belonged—to—Joyce's poor little dead young-un."
"How in"—then Tate blanched, for superstition held his dull wits. "How you 'spose it got there?"
"How can I tell, Tate? But I'll ask Joyce, to-morrer."
With that Leon had to be content.
The feast began at five. Long, long did the youth of St. Angé recall it with fulness of heart and stomach. Yearningly did St. Angé womankind hark back to it. It was the first time in their lives that they had not prepared, and were not expected themselves to serve, a meal. They forgot, in the rapture of repose, their new and splendid gowns—the comfort wrapped their every sense.
"I was borned," poor Peggy confided to her neighbour, "to be a constitootional setter, I think; but circumstances prevented. It's curious enough how naterally I take the chance to set and set and enjoy setting."
Mrs. Murphy smoothed her dark-green cashmere with reverent and caressing hand.
"There's more than you, Mis' Falster," she said, "as is borned to what they don't get, sure! Now me, fur instant, I find it easier nor what you might think, to chew without my front teeth."
This made Billy Falstar laugh. It was the first genuine laugh the poor boy had had for many an hour. Constance Drew heard it, and it did her heart good. For Billy, pale, wide-eyed and laughless, was not in the order of things as they should be. She looked at Ruth Dale and whispered, "Billy is reviving with proper nourishment."
Ruth gave her a sympathetic smile. Ruth was, herself, working under pressure, but she was successfully playing her part.