“How I should like a long walk?” exclaimed Dulce, impatiently. “It is so narrow and confined here; but it would never do: we should meet people.”
“No, it would never do,” agreed her sisters, feeling a fresh pang that such avoidance was necessary. They had never hidden anything before, and the thought that this mystery lay between them and their friends was exquisitely painful.
“I feel as though I never cared to see one of them again!” sighed poor Nan, for which speech she was rather sharply rebuked by Phillis.
They settled a fair amount of business before they went to bed that night; and when Dorothy brought in the supper-tray, bearing a little covered dish in triumph, which she set down before 67 Nan, Nan looked at her with grave, reproachful eyes, in there was a great deal of kindness.
“You should not do this, Dorothy,” she said, very gently: “we cannot afford such delicacies now.”
“It is your favorite dish, Miss Nan,” returned Dorothy, quite ignoring this remark. “Susan has cooked it to a nicety; but it will be spoiled if it is not eaten hot.” And she stood over them, while Nan dispensed the dainty. “You must eat it while it is hot,” she kept saying, as she fidgeted about the room, taking up things and putting them down again. Phillis looked at Nan with a comical expression of dismay.
“Dorothy, come here,” she exclaimed, at last, pushing away her plate. “Don’t you see that Susan is wasting all her talents on us, and that we can’t eat to-day?”
“Every one can eat if they try, Miss Phillis,” replied Dorothy, oracularly. “But a thing like that must be hot, or it is spoiled.”
“Oh, never mind about it being hot,” returned Phillis, beginning to laugh. She was so tired, and Dorothy was such a droll old thing; and how were even stewed pigeons to be appetizing under the circumstances?
“Oh, you may laugh,” began Dorothy, in an offended tone; but Phillis took hold of her and nearly shook her.