“You’d best make tea, hadn’t you?” remarked Mrs. Sibley, ostentatiously counting over the plated spoons which were her property. “Florence ’ud very likely scald herself.”
The sexton dropped heavily into the nearest chair.
“Ye bain’t goin’ away to-night!” he gasped.
Mrs. Sibley straightened herself and eyed him reflectively. It might be a little awkward to say she was leaving that night, for if by chance he did take her at her word, she had not the remotest notion of where she could go.
“Not to-night,” she said at length, with the air of one making a concession. “I reckon to-morrow ’ull be time enough.”
Florence laid down the teapot and approached, her eyes round with consternation.
“Ye’re never goin’ to leave us on Christmas Day!” she ejaculated. “Oh, Auntie!”
“Auntie” was the title unanimously bestowed on Mrs. Sibley by the young Foyles, and accepted by that lady pending its exchange for a more intimate one.
In a moment Florence burst into tears, and the other children immediately followed suit, little Rosanna being indeed so overcome by her feelings that she was constrained to lie on the floor and scream.
Mrs. Sibley stooped over her and set her on her feet. Beneath her stiff and somewhat chilly demeanour she had a warm enough heart, and was sincerely attached to her charges, particularly the youngest, whom she had brought up from infancy.