“Mother’s not well,” said Hetty shortly.
“Oh, she’s hipped; it’s more that than anything else,” laughed Mrs. Sharp. “Good-night,” and she left the room.
“Hipped! of course she is! Everybody is that complains of anything, except that Sharp Thorne of hers,” muttered Hetty, adjusting flowers, feathers, and loops of ribbon with deft and rapid fingers. “And of course I wouldn’t enjoy being in bed now, or lying an hour later in the morning! Well, thank Heaven, I haven’t a man to support, and don’t need one to support me,” she added cheerily.
CHAPTER XVII.
HETTY TO THE RESCUE.
“The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.”—Byron.
“Hetty Goodenough, you’ll have to interfere, and set your foot down firmly too, or the child’s health will be ruined for life,” remarked that young lady to herself, stealing another and another furtive glance at the wan, thin cheeks of Floy Kemper. “Why, she’s but the ghost of the pretty girl the expressman brought here two months ago.”
The Christmas holidays were near at hand, and for weeks past orders for party-dresses, head-dresses, opera cloaks, etc., had poured in upon the establishment till, as Mrs. Sharp said, they were driven almost to distraction.