“A good thing he didn’t; he’ll manage as it is to get enough to make himself sick,” she returned somewhat scornfully.
“It was so kind in you to come for me,” remarked Floy. “How did you happen to do it, Hetty?”
“Because we wanted you—mother and I at least—and we thought it was getting too late for you to come alone.”
Floy was very weary in body, inexpressibly sad and weary in heart and mind. She strove to shake off her depression and respond to Hetty’s merry mood; but in vain. She could not banish the thick-coming memories of other holiday seasons made bright and joyous by the gifts, and still more by the love, of those of whom she was now bereaved by death and enforced separation.
Ah, what of Espy to-night?
Hetty read something of this in the sad eyes, and her mood changed to quiet, subdued cheerfulness.
They entered the house quietly, letting themselves in with a latch-key, and passed into the room back of the store.
Floy uttered a slight exclamation of pleased surprise as John turned up the light.
The room had put on quite a festive appearance; all signs of work had vanished, and it had been made neat and orderly, and its walls tastefully decorated with evergreens.
“John’s doings,” said Hetty, pushing a cushioned arm-chair nearer the fire. “Sit down here, my dear, and we’ll have some refreshments shortly; you see the kettle’s boiling, and the coals are just splendid, and we can take our time, as we’re not obliged to rise early to-morrow.