When luncheon became the order of the day conversation died out. Dr. Montague, indeed made two or three attempts at light talk—but Dot was shy and Alma was nervous and Mrs. Montague was apparently elsewhere in thought, so that presently silence fell.
Dinner was at seven that night. It was a meal of many courses, several wines two servants, and finger glasses. And again Dot was perfectly if silently happy—although the finger glasses (of which she had seen none before) threw, her off her balance until she had stolen a glance at Alma to "see how she did," whereupon Dot performed the operation with infinitely more grace than Alma.
Alma wore a white silk dress and gold sash, and Dorothea white muslin and gold sash, and the doctor's eyes went from one little whitely clad maid to the other, smilingly.
The happy look on his small daughter's face pleased him greatly.
His wife often said he neither saw nor heard what was going on around him, but he had very soon discovered his little girl's supreme contentment.
He asked Dorothea if she were going away for Christmas and the holidays, and Dorothea shook her golden head and said, "No; she was going to stay at home."
Whereupon he asked Alma if she wouldn't like to carry her "dearest friend" up the mountains with her, and Alma went quite pink with delight and said—
"Oh, Father! Oh, Thea dear!"
And Dot raised her pretty shy eyes and said—
"Oh, Alma!" and then looked at Mrs. Montague as if to ask if such happiness was possible.