“Dear me, I miss Miss Frothingham!” said Doctor Madison then. “Tell Ada to use her own judgment, Lizzie. Tell her—you might have chicken again. That doesn’t spoil, in case I’m late.”
“You wouldn’t have a turkey, Doctor? To-morrow’s Christmas, you know.”
“Well—if Ada thinks so. I don’t particularly care for turkey—yes, we may as well have a turkey. But no pudding, and above all, no mince pie, Lizzie. Have something simple—prune whip, applesauce, I don’t care! Merle will be with the Winchesters all day, and she’ll need only a light supper. If there are any telephones, I’m at the hospital. Miss Frothingham will be back this afternoon.”
Then she was gone, and there was a long lonely day ahead of her small daughter. But Merle was accustomed to them. She went into the kitchen and watched Ada and Ada’s friend, Mrs. Catawba Hercules, until Miss Watson came. Then she had a music lesson, and a French lesson, and after lunch she posted herself at a front window to watch the streets and wait for pretty Miss Frothingham, who filled the double post of secretary and governess, and who had gone home yesterday to her sister’s house for a Christmas visit.
Outside was Christmas weather. All morning the streets had been bare and dark, and swept with menacing winds that hurried and buffeted the marketing and shopping women. But at noon the leaden sky had turned darker and darker, and crept lower and lower, and as Merle watched, the first timid snowflakes began to flutter whitely against the general grayness.
Then there was scurrying and laughter in the streets, bundles dampened, boys shouting and running, merry faces rouged by the pure, soft cold. The shabby leather-sheathed doors of St. Martin’s, opposite Merle’s window, creaked and swung under the touch of wet, gloved hands. Merle could see the Christmas trees and the boxed oranges outside the State Street groceries coated with eider-down; naked gardens and fences and bare trees everywhere grew muffled and feathered and lovely. In the early twilight the whole happy town echoed with bells and horns and the clanking of snow-shovels.
By this time Miss Frothingham was back again, and was helping Merle into the picturesque black velvet with the deep lace collar. Merle, sputtering through the blue embroidered cloth while her face was being washed, asked how Miss Frothingham’s little niece had liked her doll.
“Oh, my dear, she doesn’t get it until she comes down-stairs to-morrow morning, of course!”
“Will she be excited?” Merle asked, excited herself.
“She’ll be perfectly frantic! I see that your mother’s present came.”