"What's the matter with him?" she thought, slamming the front door behind her; "it isn't his funeral!"
CHAPTER VII
At the jar of the banging door, Andy Payton's hat moved slightly on the hat-rack, and something snarled at the head of the stairs.
"It's nothing, Morty—only sister," a motherly voice said; and Miss Carter leaned over the baluster:
"I'm just bringing him down to his supper; he's a little nervous this evening."
"Oh," Fred said, shortly; "well, wait till I get out of the way, please." She stepped into the unlighted parlor, and stood there in the darkness, between the piano and the bust of Mr. Andrew Payton; as she waited, her hand fell on the open keyboard, and she struck a jangling chord. "Flora has been playing on the sly," she thought; "poor old Flora!" Then for a moment her fingers were rigid on the keys—the scrabbling procession was passing through the hall down to the room where Mortimore's food was given to him. When the door closed behind him she drew a breath of relief. She never looked at her brother when she could avoid it. As she went up-stairs she paused on the landing to call out, "Hello, Mother!"
Mrs. Payton answered from the sitting-room: "Don't you want some tea, dear?"