At half-past one the last wagon rumbled out of the yard, and five
minutes later Mrs. John gave a relieved cry.
"Oh, there you are! Why, mother, father, where
have you been?"
There was no reply. The old man choked back a cough and bent to flick a
bit of dust from his coat. The old woman turned and crept away, her
erect little figure looking suddenly bent and old.
"Why, what--" began John, as his father, too, turned away. "Why, Edith,
you don't suppose--" He stopped with a helpless frown.
"Perfectly natural, my dear, perfectly natural," returned Mrs. John
lightly. "We'll get them away immediately. It'll be all right when once
they are started."
Some hours later a very tired old man and a still more tired old woman
crept into a pair of sumptuous, canopy-topped twin beds. There was only
one remark.
"Why, Seth, mine ain't feathers a mite! Is yours?"
There was no reply. Tired nature had triumphed--Seth was asleep.
They made a brave fight, those two. They told themselves that the chairs
were easier, the carpets softer, and the pictures prettier than those
that had gone under the hammer that day as they sat hand in hand in the
attic. They assured each other that the unaccustomed richness of window
and bed hangings and the profusion of strange vases and statuettes did
not make them afraid to stir lest they soil or break something.
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