“I thought perhaps you could eat a sandwich, father,” she said. “I don't believe you had anything decent for lunch in New York.”
“I didn't have much,” said Harry. He did not add, what was the truth, that lately he had been stinting himself on his luncheons in the effort to save a little more of his earnings. He ate nearly all the sandwiches, and drank two cups of chocolate, and really looked much better.
“You need more nourishment, father,” said Maria, with a wise, maternal air, which was also half accusatory, and which made Harry think so strongly of his first wife that he regarded Maria as he might have regarded her mother.
“You grow more and more like your own mother, dear,” he said.
“Well, I am glad of that,” replied Maria. “Mother was a good woman. If I can only be half as good as mother was.”
“Your mother was a good woman,” said Harry, reflectively; and as he spoke he seemed to feel the arms of strong, almost stern, feminity and faithfulness which had encompassed his childlike soul for so many years. He owned to himself that Maria's mother had been a much more suitable wife for him than this other woman. Then he had a little qualm of remorse, for Ida came in sight, richly dressed and elegant, as usual, with Evelyn dancing along beside her. Mrs. Adams was with her. Mrs. Adams was talking and Ida was smiling. It was more becoming to Ida to smile than to talk. She had discovered long since that she had not so very much to say, and that her smiles were better coin of her little realm; she therefore generally employed them in preference.
Maria got up hastily and took the tray and the chocolate-cups. “I guess Mrs. Adams is coming in,” said she.
“You didn't make enough chocolate to give them?” Harry said, hesitatingly.
“No,” replied Maria, and her tone was a little curt even to her father. “And I used up the last bit of chocolate in the house, too.” Then she scudded out of the room with her tray and passed the front door as the sound of Ida's latch-key was heard in the lock. Maria set her tray on the kitchen-table and hurried up the back stairs to her own room. She entered it and locked both doors, the one communicating with the hall and the one which connected it with Evelyn's room. She had no sooner done so than she heard the quick patter of little feet, and the door leading into Evelyn's room was tried, then violently shaken. “Let me in, sister; let me in,” cried the sweet little flute of a voice on the other side. Evelyn could now talk plainly, but she still kept to her baby appellation for her sister.
“No, darling, sister can't let you in now,” replied Maria.