Mr. Landholm's quiet study was remarkably quiet for a good while after she went out. No leaf of his book rustled over; not a foot of his chair grated on the floor, — for though the floor did boast a bit of carpet, it lay not where he sat, by the window; and the coals and firebrands fell noiselessly down into the ashes and nobody was reminded that the fire would burn itself out in time if it was let alone. The morning light grew stronger, and the sunbeams that never got there till between nine and ten o'clock, walked into the room; and they found Winthrop Landholm with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, where they often were; but with his eyes where they not often were — on the floor. The sunbeams said very softly that it was time to be at the office, but they said it very softly, and Winthrop did not hear them.
He heard however presently a footstep on the stair, in the next story at first, and then mounting the uppermost flight that led to the attic. A heavy brisk energetic footstep, — not Mrs. Nettley's soft and slow tread, nor the more deliberate one of her brother. Winthrop listened a moment, and then as the last impatient creak of the boot stopped at his threshold he knew who would open the door. It was Rufus.
"Here you are. Why I expected to find you at the office!" was the first cheery exclamation, after the brothers had clasped hands.
"What did you come here to find, then?" said Winthrop.
"Room for my carpet-bag, in the first place; and a pair of slippers, and comfort. It's stinging weather, Governor!"
"I know it. I came down the river the night before last."
"I shouldn't think you knew it, for you've let your fire go down confoundedly. Why Winthrop! there's hardly a spark here! What have you been thinking about?"
"I was kindling the fire, mentally," said Winthrop.
"Mentally! — where's your kindling? — I can tell you! — if you had been out in this air you'd want some breath of material flame, before you could set any other agoing. And I am afraid this isn't enough — or won't be, — I want some fuel for another sort of internal combustion — some of my Scotchman's haggis."
And Rufus stopped to laugh, with a very funny face, in the midst of his piling chips and brands together.