"I am going to tell Uncle all about her poor, sick father. If anyone can make him well, he can. And about the chair—that one has been up in the attic for years and years. There, my frame is finished all but the ribbons to hang it up by. I shall have to ask Liza to punch the holes for me. Liza! Li—za! Li—za—a!"
"Yas'm, Miss May-ree, yas'm! Wal, ain't dat de mos' bu'ful present I ebah did see! Wait, honey, twell I calls ole Susie."
The cook was as loud as Liza in her praise of the little girl's work.
"And now I am going to put it in Uncle's room so Gene won't see it."
What matter that the crepe paper was not cut very evenly, or that the paste showed through in several places? The love that was worked into every inch of that picture frame and the dear little face peeping out of the very heart of the flower brightened many a sad day in Gene's after life.
"Oh, oh! Liza! there's the door bell!" Mary stopped short at the door of her uncle's room.
"Dat's all right, honey. I'se gwine turn out de light in heah, an' ef'n it's Miss Gene, yo' come 'long down right aftah me an' tek her in de liberry an' keep her dah talkin' while I comes back up heah an' cleahs away de scraps."
Mary was half way down the stairs when Liza opened the door to admit Gene, who was followed by Jim with his arms piled high with boxes.
"There is so much delay about sending things these days that I thought I had better bring them since I had the carriage," explained the young girl.
"Liza will show Jim where to put the boxes, Gene. Come in here and warm yourself by the fire. Do tell me what you bought—every single thing. Did you see about that nice chair for your father?" Though Mary tried to ask the question in her usual tone, there was an anxious note in her voice, which did not escape Gene; neither did the child's little sigh of relief when she answered, "No, Mary, I wish to ask your uncle's advice about that."