Freda had passed her girlhood and where she had told them a feeble old mother and several younger brothers and sisters were still living.
“I have an idea,” said John. “Where’s her picture, Mother? Perhaps she wrote it on the back of that.”
Mrs. Edgecombe ran to her desk and began searching through her papers. At length she drew out the photograph of Freda, looking very happy in her wedding dress while Eric stood by seeming decidedly stiff and uncomfortable in his best clothes. But, alas! secure in the pride of her new name, Freda, the bride, had written very plainly “Mrs. Eric Svenson” on the back of the photograph, and the only address was the street and number of the little house in America where she and Eric had founded their new home.
“Well,” said Mrs. Edgecombe, brightening, “at any rate, we can write to her and tell her what we need. There will be plenty of time to hear from her before we leave Sweden.”
“I suppose it is all we can do,” said John.
“But it’s too bad,” cried Dorothy. “She talked so much of the Jul-tide, and I know that she intended these things for Christmas presents.”
“It is too bad,” said Mrs. Edgecombe. She stood the photograph on the table and her eyes filled with tears as she looked at Freda’s honest, happy face. Freda had been a faithful maid and Mrs. Edgecombe could not forget how faithful she had been to her in a time of illness and sorrow.
There was a slight sound behind them and Mrs. Edgecombe turned to see Stena standing in a funny attitude, as if she had suddenly become frozen in the very act of making a courtesy. The short winter day had already darkened so that the lamps had been lighted and Mrs. Edgecombe had placed the photograph beneath the lamp where the strong light fell directly upon it.