Part 12 (1/2)

It was Lois and her father,--Joe Yare being feeder that night. They were in one of the great furnace-rooms in the cellar,--a very comfortable place that stormy night. Two or three doors of the wide brick ovens were open, and the fire threw a ruddy glow over the stone floor, and s.h.i.+mmered into the dark recesses of the shadows, very home-like after the rain and mud without. Lois seemed to think so, at any rate, for she had made a table of a store-box, put a white cloth on it, and was busy getting up a regular supper for her father,--down on her knees before the red coals, turning something on an iron plate, while some slices of ham sent up a cloud of juicy, hungry smell.

The old stoker had just finished slaking the out-fires, and was putting some blue plates on the table, gravely straightening them. He had grown old, as Polston said,--Holmes saw, stooped much, with a low, hacking cough; his coa.r.s.e clothes were curiously clean: that was to please Lois, of course. She put the ham on the table, and some bubbling coffee, and then, from a hickory board in front of the fire, took off, with a jerk, brown, flaky slices of Virginia johnny-cake.

”Ther' yoh are, father, hot 'n' hot,” with her face on fire,--”ther'--yoh--are,--coaxin' to be eatin'.--Why, Mr. Holmes!

Father! Now, ef yoh jes' hedn't hed yer supper?”

She came up, coaxingly. What brooding brown eyes the poor cripple had!

Not many years ago he would have sat down with the two poor souls, and made a hearty meal of it: he had no heart for such follies now.

Old Yare stood in the background, his hat in his hand, stooping in his submissive negro fas.h.i.+on, with a frightened watch on Holmes.

”Do you stay here, Lois?” he asked, kindly, turning his back on the old man.

”On'y to bring his supper. I couldn't bide all night 'n th' mill,” the old shadow coming on her face,--”I couldn't, yoh know. HE doesn't mind it.”

She glanced quickly from one to the other in silence, seeing the fear on her father's face.

”Yoh know father, Mr. Holmes? He's back now. This is him.”

The old man came forward, humbly.

”It's me, Marster Stephen.”

The sullen, stealthy face disgusted Holmes. He nodded, shortly.

”Yoh've been kind to my little girl while I was gone,” he said, catching his breath. ”I thank yoh, Marster.”

”You need not. It was for Lois.”

”'T was fur her I comed back hyur. 'T was a resk,”--with a dumb look of entreaty at Holmes,--”but fur her I thort I'd try it. I know't was a resk; but I thort them as cared fur Lo wud be merciful. She's a good girl, Lo. She's all I hev.”

Lois brought a box over, lugging it heavily.

”We hev n't chairs; but yoh'll sit down, Mr. Holmes?” laughing as she covered it with a cloth. ”It'd a warm place, here. Father studies 'n his watch, 'n' I'm teacher,”--showing the torn old spelling-book.

The old man came eagerly forward, seeing the smile flicker on Holmes's face.

”It's slow work, Marster,--slow. But Lo's a good teacher, 'n' I'm tryin',--I'm tryin' hard.”

”It's not slow, Sir, seein' father hed n't 'dvantages, like me. He was a”----

She stopped, lowering her voice, a hot flush of shame on her face.

”I know.”

”Be n't that'll 'xcuse, Marster, seein' I knowed noght at the beginnin'? Thenk o' that, Marster. I'm tryin' to be a different man.

Fur Lo. I AM tryin'.”

Holmes did not notice him.