Helen met him at the door, and drew him into the house. "You are so late," she said, pressing his chill fingers against her warm cheek, and chafing them between her hands.
He stopped to kiss her before he took his coat off, smiling at her happiness and his own.
"How raw and cold it is!" she said. "Come into the study; I have a beautiful fire for you. Is it going to snow, do you think? How is your sick woman?"
"Better," he answered, as he followed her into the room. "Oh, Helen, it is good to be at home. I have not seen you since noon."
She laughed, and then insisted that he should sit still, and let her bring his supper into the study, and eat it there by the fire. He watched her with a delicious luxury of rest and content; for he was very tired and very happy.
She put a little table beside him, covered with a large napkin; and then she brought a loaf of brown bread and some honey, with a mould of yellow butter, and last a little covered dish of chicken.
"I broiled that for you myself," she explained proudly; "and I did not mean to give you coffee, but what do you think?—the whole canister of tea has disappeared. When Alfaretta went to get it for my supper, it had gone."
"Oh," John said, smiling, while Helen began to pour some cream into his coffee from a flat little silver jug, "I forgot to mention it: the fact is, I took that tea with me this afternoon,—I thought probably they had none in the house; and I wish you could have seen the woman's joy at the sight of it. I cooked some for her,—she told me how," he said deprecatingly, for Helen laughed; "and she said it was very good, too," he added.
But Helen refused to believe that possible. "It was politeness, John," she cried gayly, "and because, I suppose, you presented her with my lacquered canister."
"I did leave it," John admitted; "I never thought of it." But he forgot even to ask forgiveness, as she bent towards him, resting her hand on his shoulder while she put his cup beside him.