CHAPTER XVIII.
DOROTHY BRINGS IN THE BEST CHINA.
“What a fool I made of myself yesterday! but to-day Richard is himself again,” said Phillis, as she gathered up another muslin curtain in her arms ready to hand to Nan, who was mounted on some steps. It was only Monday afternoon, but the girls had done wonders: the work-room, as they called it, was nearly finished. The great carved wardrobe and mahogany table had been polished by Dorothy’s strong hands. Mrs. Challoner’s easy-chair and little work-table at one window looked quite inviting; the sewing-machine and Nan’s rosewood davenport were in their places. A hanging cupboard of old china, and a few well-bound books, gave a little coloring and finish, and one or two fine old prints that had hung in the dining-room at Glen Cottage had been disposed with advantage on the newly-papered walls. An inlaid clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and some handsome ruby-colored vases stood on either side of it. Nan was quite right when she had glanced round her a few minutes ago in a satisfied manner and said no one need be ashamed of living in such a room.
“Our pretty things make it look almost too nice for the 133 purpose,” she continued, handling a precious relic, a Sevres cup and saucer, that had been her especial pride in old days. “I think you were wrong, Phil, not to have the china in the other room.”
“No, indeed; I want people to see it and be struck with our taste,” was Phillis’s frank answer. “Think what pleasure it will give the poor ladies when their dresses are being tried on. Don’t you remember the basket of wax fruit at Miss Slinders’s, when we were small children? I thought it the loveliest work of art, and feasted my eyes all the time Miss Slinders was fitting my pink frock. Now, our pictures and china will refresh people’s eyes in the same way.”
Nan smiled and shook her head, as she dusted and arranged her treasures. The china was very dear to her,—far more than the books Phillis was arranging on the chiffonnier. The Dresden figures that Dick had given to her mother were among them. She did not care for strangers to look at them and appraise their value. They were home treasures,—sacred relics of their past. The last time she had dusted them, a certain young man of her acquaintance had walked through the open window whistling “Blue bonnets over the Border,” and had taken up his station beside her, hindering her work with his chattering. Dulce was in the upper regions, unpacking a box in her mother’s room. Mrs. Challoner was coming home the next day, and Dorothy and she were hard at work getting things in order.
When Phillis made her downright speech, Nan looked down from her lofty perch, and held out her arms for the curtain.
“Richard is always himself, my dear,” she said, softly. “Do you know when you are down, Phil, I feel as though we are all at a stand-still, and there’s no getting on at all? and then at one of your dear droll speeches the sunshine comes out again, and we are all as right as possible.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” was Phillis’s blunt answer; but she could not help being pleased at the compliment. She looked up archly at Nan, as the mass of soft white drapery lay between them; and then they both broke into a laugh, just as two shadows seemed to glide past the window, and a moment afterwards the house-bell sounded. “Visitors!—oh, Nan!” And Phillis glanced down at the neat bib apron that she wore over her cambric dress.
“Don’t be afraid; Dorothy will have too much sense to admit them,” returned Nan, quite indifferently, as she went up a step higher to hang up the curtain.