The bustle and excitement were agreeable to Madame Le Conte, and she found much enjoyment in selecting her gifts and paying for them from her well-filled purse.
Meanwhile Floy toiled on at the dress, her thoughts now with Espy in his anxiety and grief, now dwelling mournfully upon the past, memory and imagination bringing vividly before her the loved faces that should gladden her eyes no more on earth, and causing her to hear again each well-remembered tone of the dear voices now silent in the tomb.
She longed to seek out a solitary place and weep, but the luxury of tears was not for her; she forced them back, silently asking help to obey the command to be ever “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation.”
Hope! ah, she had not lost that even for this life. Espy still lived, still loved her; they might yet be restored to each other. And her mother—that unknown yet already dearly-loved mother—who should say how soon she would be given to her prayers and efforts?
Her needle flew more swiftly, while a tender, loving smile played about her lips and shone in her dark, lustrous eyes.
The Madame came home panting and wheezing, but elated with her success in shopping. She was quite ready for Christmas, and it might come as soon as it pleased. But—ah, there was the dress!
“Are you going to get it done to-day?” she asked, sinking into a chair in front of Floy, and glancing anxiously from her to the garment and back again.
“I shall try, Madame, but fear it is doubtful,” Floy replied, raising her eyes for an instant to her interrogator’s face.
The Madame started, changed color, and seemed quite agitated for a moment. Then recovered herself.
“The girls shall both help you,” she said, “and you won’t mind working in the evening, will you? You’ll not need to go back to Mrs. Sharp’s to-night, will you?”