The boy was less pale for a vigorous towelling, but he looked uncomfortable, like one who could neither account for his being there nor feel that he ought to be there. Mary saw at a glance that Win had adopted him without reservation during their absence. Win was a most definite person toward his acquaintances; one was never in doubt as to his attitude toward them. He loved, or he loved them not, and one never had to have recourse to a daisy to find out which it was. He kept his hand on the lame lad’s shoulder, as he entered the dining-room, and smiled at him with peculiar kindness.
“Yes, we consider that a subtle bit of cleverness!” Win supplemented Mary. “The house is a greenhouse for growing the Garden roses—see?” He waved his hand toward Mary and Jane. “It has grown other Garden plants, for that matter. My grandfather, the girls’ great-grandfather, built it, and it was owned by my father, and then by my elder brother, their father. I was born in it; so were they. It went to two oldest sons; then that last one had nothing but three worthless girls to leave it to!” Win scowled fearfully at them.
“It’s a dandy house,” said the stranger, looking around him.
It really was! The hall ran through the middle of it, with big rooms on either hand and windows catching the sun’s rays in turn, as the solid house was swung around him. The dining-room got the last of the daylight, facing westward as it did. A glowing sunset lighted up the round mahogany table, in the centre of the room, and its snowy damask, brilliant glass, and silver. Fine old steel engravings of Landseer’s pictures hung around the wall; the chairs were solid, high of back. The room gave an effect of cheer, and space, and plenty.
“I feel horribly uncomfortable, intruding,” said the guest, looking with convincing appeal and a flushed face at the girls.
“I don’t think you could call it intruding to stay when you are urged to—and wanted—do you?” asked Mary.
“My only fear is there mayn’t be enough to eat!” said Win.
“There is, then!” declared a new voice, and they all turned to see Abbie Abbott, bringing in a tray with creamed chicken garnished with parsley, and a steaming plate piled with flaky biscuits. Abbie might have been almost any age between twenty-five and sixty-five; in reality she was halfway between those two ages, and a character.
“You’ve enough to feed six delegates to a convention—and they’re the hungriest things I ever come across, Mr. Win! Mr. Moulton and Mis’ Moulton called on the phome and said they’d be over to-night,” added Abbie.
“We always say Mr. and Mrs. Moulton called,” remarked Jane, as Abbie disappeared. “You don’t speak of every one together as you do them. I wonder why!”