She heard Mrs. Hogan at the kitchen stove, raking down the ashes and rattling the dampers. By and by she came through the hall and opened the door.
“Ha!” she said. “Ye have a boomin’ fire—an’ all goin’ up the chimney, av coorse. Fuel is nothin’ to the rich. Git up out o’ that, Cely Moran! D’ye wanter lie abed all day? ’Tis long past sivin o’clock, and we’re snowed in to the second story—an’ still ’tis snowin’. Git up, I say!”
Meanwhile she had partly closed the back draft and the fire roared less angrily. Celia stirred sleepily.
“Good morning!” Dorothy said to Mrs. Hogan. “I am going to get up, too. Will you put my clothes in here? It is getting nice and warm now.”
“I’ll sind thim in by Cely. Git out o’ that bed, now—plague o’ me life! Scatter out inter the kitchen,” and she drove the little one before her as one would shoo a chicken.
“It really isn’t snowing now; is it?” cried Dorothy, before Mrs. Hogan could shut the door.
“Indade it is—snowin’ hard. I kin see it from me winder upstairs. But the house is drifted around, till there’s a bank before me kitchen door higher than the lintel. And me’ kitchen pump’s froze. Lucky there’s water in the tea kettle and I’ll soon have it thawed. Ye’ll find water—or ice—in that pitcher yonder, Miss.”
The woman retreated. Celia, as soon as she had got into her own clothes, brought in Dorothy’s garments and hung them carefully on chairs about the stove to warm before the bigger girl put them on.
“You’re a dear little maid!” cried Dorothy. “Thank you.”
“I wish I could go to that school and work for you,” said Celia, wistfully. “Don’t you suppose I could?”