“I thought we'd just have some bread and milk for dinner, and somethin' hearty to-night, when you came home,” said Fanny. “I thought maybe a stew would taste good.”
“I guess it will,” said Ellen, stooping down to kiss Amabel. “Where did you say father was?”
“Uncle Andrew has been lyin' down all day most,” whispered Amabel.
“Isn't he well?” Ellen asked her mother, in quick alarm.
“Oh yes, he's well enough.” Fanny moved close to the girl with a motion of secrecy. “If I were you I wouldn't say one word about the shop, nor what you did, before father to-night; let him kind of get used to it. Amabel mustn't talk about it, either.”
“I won't,” said Amabel, with a wise air.
“You know father had set his heart on somethin' pretty different for you,” said Fanny.
Fanny hushed her voice as Andrew came out of the dining-room, staggering a little as if the light blinded him. His nervous strength of the morning had passed and left him exhausted. He moved and stood with a downward lope of every muscle, expressing unutterable patience, which had passed beyond rebellion and questioning.
He stood before Ellen like some old, spent horse. He was expecting to hear something about the shop—expecting, as it were, a touch on a sore, and he waited for it meekly.
Ellen turned her lovely, glowing face towards him.