Floy was glad of the few moments of solitude thus afforded her. It was growing light, and she found time before the call to breakfast for another peep at her precious letter. She hurried down at the first stroke of the bell, anxious to avoid meeting the Sharps on the stairway.
Patsy, in her ordinary soiled, frowsy-headed, slipshod condition, was setting the chairs up to the table, on which Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty were arranging an unusually inviting meal.
“Don’t delude yourself with the hope that you are about to be regaled upon pound-cake, Miss Kemper,” remarked Hetty, placing a loaf of hot corn-pone near Floy’s plate, another at the farther end of the board.
“No, it’s only Indian,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “but it’s splendid, and more than equivalent to pound-cake for breakfast.”
“Yes indeed,” said Floy, “I greatly prefer it, at any rate; I’m extremely fond of good corn-bread.”
“Well, Hetty’s is always superior to the best.”
“Superior to the best, eh?” sneered the Thorne, as with pompous air he came leisurely in and took his accustomed seat. “Madam, that is a contradiction in terms.”
“Well, if it isn’t good enough for you, you needn’t eat it,” she returned indifferently; “but let’s sit down and begin while it’s hot.”
The Thorne was evidently in no holiday mood. “Where are the children?” he demanded, with a scowl, glancing about upon the empty seats as he took up the carving knife and fork.
“Don’t wait for them; they’ll be here presently,” said his wife.