CHAPTER XXII
"On, Denis!" said Nell, looking up from a letter from Miss Kezia. They were at breakfast. In the middle of the table there was a great jar of jonquils. In a tiny glass bowl were some precious snowdrops from home. The room wore a rakish air somehow. Perhaps it was the different arrangement of the furniture, which, instead of standing stiffly in set places, was clotted about haphazard just wherever it happened to find itself. On one chair lay a smock of the Atom's, with a needle and cotton stuck into it where Nell had begun to mend a rent. On another lay Molly's gloves. Books and papers were scattered about—James O'Driscoll wandered about and picked out all the furniture buttons that he could find. The sun peeped in and laughed and danced to think what Miss Kezia would say.
"Oh, Denis!" said Nell.
He looked up from a letter.
"What's up?"
Nell bit her lip.
"What's up?"
With eyes cast down, she began rather tremulously:—
"It's—it's Miss Hadlow. She has it worse than Aunt Kezia thought. She doesn't think she'll be able to be home for some days yet."
"How many days, Nell?" queried the Atom, anxiously.