The doorway into which she was shown led into a narrow carpeted hall; the study door stood open; books in book-cases, on the floor, on a table, books and dust, a coat on a chair; the light from two windows streamed in.
“If you care for books you will find something to do—the latest magazines are somewhere. My housekeeper had to leave suddenly, and to get another has been impossible. I wish I might make you comfortable. I’d like to put Kenney under the pump for bringing you. Would you rather I would take you to a neighbor?” he asked, brightening.
“Oh, no; I like it—I shall like it,—here, in a few minutes,” she said with fervent kindliness.
“Don’t get us any supper; Mr. Kenney was only joking,” he added as he disappeared.
It was rather a cruel kind of a joke, she thought, as Daisy sped down the road; she would run away and walk home, seven miles, if she dared. But Roger would be hurt; he had brought her for the drive, and had no idea of the dismalness of the desolate old place.
She threw off hat and gloves, and braced herself for action of some kind. Roger would expect supper. It was not difficult to find the kitchen; there was no fire, a fire could hardly be expected; there appeared to be nothing in the room but piles and piles of dirty dishes. There were kindlings in a basket near the stove, and wood in the box behind the stove; there was a sink and a pump; with fire and water she could wash dishes.
If Marion had only come, too, what fun it would have been. It would be rather desolate fun all alone.
She discovered soap in a dish on the sink, and towels, clean towels, hanging on a heavy cord behind the stove. The room, like the study, was flooded with the afternoon sunshine. And there were pictures out of the window; she had never yet found a window that did not frame a picture. She could not be lonely with pictures and sunshine.
In five minutes the wood fire was crackling; the sunshine and the fire were two companions she loved, and then, Marion often laughed at her enthusiasm for washing dishes. For once in her life, she would tell Marion, she had dishes enough to wash.
If she might only heat the oven and make biscuits. That would be a surprise. With a feeling that she was intruding she opened a closet door; a loaf of bread, a plate of butter, a paper of soda crackers, a small basket of eggs, a tin quart of milk, a bag of salt was the quick inventory she made—then she found a bag of flour on the floor, a basket of potatoes, a ham from which slices had been cut, and a jug of molasses. Hot biscuits, ham and eggs, coffee, there must be coffee; what a splendid supper she might have. There were no remains of a dinner; perhaps he had forgotten to get any dinner, or he might have been invited out; he should have one supper—if there were only time.