“I must go up and see if Araminta is sick, Thorne; the poor thing was too tired yesterday with her journey to do anything but lounge about.”
“Humph! I dare say; you are ruining that child with your coddling.”
“Ah, here she comes! Lucian too,” said Mrs. Sharp in a relieved tone, resuming her seat as the door opened and a girl of fifteen, looking only half awake and far from neat, in a loose, somewhat soiled morning dress and hair in crimps, came languidly in, followed by a lad some four years older, the veritable counterpart of his father in appearance and manners.
The latter had a scowl and rebuke for each, which were received as matters of course.
“Don’t scold ’em, Thorne,” said their aunt; “the poor things have so much book attention when they’re at school!”
“You’re rather late, children,” the mother remarked, helping them bountifully; “times are changed since you were little things. Then we could hardly keep you from waking us too soon Christmas morning.”
“That was when we were children indeed, and hung up our stockings,” said Lucian, “and didn’t know what was in them. Now you just give us the money and let us buy for ourselves.”
A loud peal from the door-bell sent Patsy flying out to the hall. She returned in a moment with a letter, two packages, and the morning paper.
“For me! I know they are!” cried Araminta, waking up. “Here, Patsy, give them to me. Dear me, no! how provoking! they’re every one directed to Miss Kemper,” and she looked around inquiringly.
Upon that John introduced the two, and Floy’s property was somewhat reluctantly resigned to her.