“Our dord, he is dead,” explained the baby solemnly.
“Well, that’s a good thing. Will the old gentleman be in soon?”
“I—I don’t know—yes—I—I hope 304 so. Is there any message you would like to leave for him?”
Before the man could answer, the baby’s voice was again heard.
“My fahver he’s dorn orf.”
“Where’s he gone, sonny?”
“He’s dorn on the tars, so’s my mohver; and my bid brover he putted yem on, and he won’t be home ’til I’m asleep, and he’s doin’ to brin’ me a drum and put it in my bed.”
(Oh, how Rose longed to shake the baby!)
“Well, then, ladies, since you are likely to be alone, I think I’ll stay and keep you company; and since you press me, I will take tea and spend the evening. Don’t go to any extra work for me, though; it all looks very nice. I’m rather hungry, so you may dish up that ham at once, my dear”—this to poor Florence, who had shrunk almost into invisibility behind the stove-pipe, and who seemed glued to the spot—“I’ve usually a very fair appetite, and I am sure I will relish it.”
He tossed his hat down beside the chair which he drew up to the table.