“I must go to the office,” Cis said suddenly to Miss Braithwaite at breakfast. “I wonder why I’ve only just thought of it? How could I forget! It is half past nine already. Miss Braithwaite, what shall I do? Ought I telephone Mr. Lucas first, ask him if he still wants me to come? You had me excused for only one day.”
“No, my dear, I didn’t,” said Miss Braithwaite promptly. “I didn’t specify the length of your absence. I told Mr. Lucas that Cicely Adair was not at all well, could not possibly take up her duties, but that if she weren’t able to resume them in less than a week he should hear from me again. He was entirely amiable, bade me let him know, also, if you needed anything that he could procure for you. So you are perfectly all right to be absent again to-day. If you feel like going down to-morrow I’ll drive you down myself; we shall see!”
“How good you are to me, Miss Braithwaite!” cried Cis. “And I never shall be able to do the least thing for you!”
“Don’t be too sure of it!” cried Miss Braithwaite. “I have designs on you! A girl of your sort can do no end of things for me, a proxy me, who is far more important than the me direct. There are several things near and dear to my heart which are more interesting and important than a fusty, aging maiden lady, Cicely Adair. For instance, I can imagine you giving my ragged hoodlum lads a royal good time when you’re ready for it; my little scalawag boys whose qualities are a plaid; black and white, good and bad, fairly evenly mixed, though I do believe that the black has white hair lines in its blocks!”
“Orphan asylum?” asked Cis listlessly, yet her eyes had brightened slightly.
“Industrial school, orphans or half-orphans, little boys whom we Catholics must hold tight; if we relax in the least the devil will slip a claw in underneath our loosened fingers!” replied Miss Braithwaite turning toward her maid, then bringing in the mail of the first delivery of that day.
“I was great pals with a funny bunch of newsies at home,” said Cis, biting her lip and glancing anxiously at the small clock behind her as the sight of the letters reminded her of the note which Rodney might then be reading. Or had not Miss Braithwaite sent it out the previous night? She had not asked, she did not ask now, but the letters which Miss Braithwaite was assorting gave her the sickened feeling with which one hears the first clods fall upon a casket which the guy ropes have just let down forever.
“I knew you’d be great pals with that sort of youngster, Cicely,” returned Miss Braithwaite, cheerfully adopting Cis’s terms. “Letter for you, my dear; I had your mail sent here, from Miss Wallace’s.”
“Oh, it’s Nan!” cried Cis. “Thank you, Miss Braithwaite.”
She read her letter with a moved face and laid it down softly, stroking the pages.