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A Late Supper
by
She took up her sewing again, and looked critically at it through her spectacles, and then went on with her stitching, feeling lighter-hearted now that the question was decided. The tall clock struck three slowly; and she said to herself how fast the last hour had gone. There was a little breeze outside which came rustling through the lilac-leaves. The wide street was left to itself, nobody had driven by since she had sat at the window. She heard some children laughing and calling to each other where they were at play in a yard not far away, and smiled in sympathy; for her heart had never grown old. The smell of the roses by the gate came blowing in sweet and fresh, and she could see the great red peonies in generous bloom on the borders each side the front walk. And, when she looked round the room, it seemed very pleasant to her, the clock ticked steadily; and the old-fashioned chairs, and the narrow high mirror with the gilt eagle at the top, the stiff faded portraits of her father and mother in their young days, the wide old brass-nailed sofa with its dim worsted-worked cushion at either end,–how comfortable it all was! and a great thrill of fondness for the room and the house came over our friend. “I didn’t know I cared so much about the old place,” said she. “‘There’s no place like home.’–I believe I never knew that meant so much before;” and she laid down her sewing again, and fell into a reverie.
In a little while she heard the click of the gate-latch; and, with the start and curiosity a village woman instinctively feels at the knowledge of somebody’s coming in at the front-door, she hurried to the other front-window to take a look at her visitor through the blinds. It was only a child, and Miss Catherine did not wait for her to rap with the high and heavy knocker, but was standing in the open doorway when the little girl reached the steps.
“Come in, dear!” said Miss Catherine kindly, “did you come of an errand?”
“I wanted to ask you something,” said the child, following her into the sitting-room, and taking the chair next the door with a shy smile that had something appealing about it. “I came to ask you if you want a girl this summer.”
“Why, no, I never keep help,” said Miss Spring. “There is a woman who comes Mondays and Tuesdays, and other days when I need her. Who is it that wants to come?”
“It’s only me,” said the child. “I’m small of my age; but I’m past ten, and I can work real smart about house.” A great cloud of disappointment came over her face.
“Whose child are you?”
“I’m Katy Dunning, and I live with my aunt down by Sandy-river Bridge. Her girl is big enough to help round now, and she said I must find a place. She would keep me if she could,” said the little girl in a grown-up, old-fashioned way; “but times are going to be dreadful hard, they say, and it takes a good deal to keep so many.”
“What made you come here?” asked Miss Catherine, whose heart went out toward this hard-worked, womanly little thing. It seemed so pitiful that so young a child, who ought to be still at play, should already know about hard times, and have begun to fight the battle of life. A year ago she had thought of taking just such a girl to save steps, and for the sake of having somebody in the house; but it never could be more out of the question than now. “What made you come to me?”
“Mr. Rand, at the post-office, told aunt that perhaps you might want me: he couldn’t think of anybody else.”
She was such a neat-looking, well-mended child, and looked Miss Catherine in the face so honestly! She might cry a little after she was outside the gate, but not now.