"Why, Lewis," she said gaily, "what would you have me wear?"
"I don't know, I am sure," he answered, joining her laugh. "Only, why should fivepence goods look like a tea-party dress on you?" Then they went down to breakfast.
Almost the first thought that the young wife had, as she surveyed the strange scene, was embodied in a wonderment as to what Estelle would say could she look in on them now.
That great, clean kitchen; the kettle steaming on the cook-stove, and the black "spider" still sizzling about the ham gravy that was left in it; the large-leaved table, spread; old-fashioned, blue earthenware dishes arranged on it, without regard to grace, certainly, whatever might be said of convenience. In the middle of the table sat the inevitable tallow candle, and another one blinked on the high mantlepiece, bringing out the shadows in a strange, weird way.
Seated at the foot of the table was John, in his shirt-sleeves, the mild winter morning having proved too trying for his coat. His father was still engaged in putting the finishing touches to his toilet by brushing his few spears of gray hair before the little glass in the further end of the room. Dorothy leaned against the window and waited, looking both distressed and cross.
"Come! Come! Come!" said the mother of this home, directly the stair-door had closed after the arrival of her new daughter. "Do let us get down to breakfast; it will be noon before we get the dishes out-of-the-way. Now, father, have we got to wait for you? I thought you were ready an hour ago. Come, Lewis; you must be hungry by this time."
The rich blood mounted to Lewis's cheeks. This was a trying greeting for his wife; he felt exactly as though he wanted to say that he thought so; but she brushed past him at that moment, laying a cool little hand for an instant on his. Was it a warning touch? Then she went over to the young man in the shirt-sleeves.
"Nobody introduces us," she said, in a tone of quiet brightness. "I suppose they think that brother and sister do not need introduction. I am Louise, and I am sure you must be John; let's shake hands on it." And the small, white hand was outstretched and waiting. What was to be done?
John, who was prepared to hate her, so well prepared that he already half did so—John (who never shook hands with anybody, least of all a woman; never came in contact with one if he could possibly help it) felt the flush in his face deepen until he knew he was the colour of a peony, but nevertheless slowly held forth his hard red hand, and touched the small white one, which instantly seized it in a cordial grasp. Then they sat down to breakfast.
Louise waited with bowed head, and was thrilled with a startled sense of unlikeness to home as she waited in vain. No voice expressed its thankfulness for many mercies; instead, the clatter of dishes immediately commenced. "Not one in the family save myself is a Christian." She remembered well that Lewis had told her so; but was he of so little moment in his father's house that the simple word of blessing would not have been received among them from his lips? It had not occurred to her that, because her husband was the only Christian in the household, therefore he sat at a prayer-less table.