On her own part, after she had gone to bed, Janice Day listened often for his step, to and fro, hour after hour, on the honeysuckle-sheltered porch. Was he thinking about the lost letters? Would neither he nor his daughter ever be able to get over—to forget— the mementoes of dear mother, and their disappearance with Olga Cedarstrom?
Janice often cried herself to sleep thinking of this loss. But she cried quietly so that daddy should not hear her; and she was always very careful in the morning to remove all traces of tears or sleeplessness before appearing in his presence at the breakfast table.
"What's been done to-day, daughter?" was often daddy's question at night, accompanied by one of his keenly interrogating glances.
When she catalogued the day's industries sometimes he shook his head.
"But where is the fun? When do you play? What have you been doing to celebrate your freedom from the scholastic yoke?" he would demand.
"We-ell, you know, Daddy, I can't be a gadabout all the time—and with Miss Peckham watching me from behind her blinds every time I go out," and she giggled.
"Miss Peckham be eternally— Hem! I don't suppose I can use strong language in regard to the lady who has washed her hands of us, can I?"
"Not very strong language, Daddy," she rejoined, laughing aloud now.
"Well, in that case, we'll merely ignore our neighbor. That means you, too, Janice; and you must play a little more in spite of Miss Peckham."
"But, Daddy, I do play, as you call it. There was the picnic in
Emmon's Woods, and the straw ride to Clewitt—"