over and over again. Still later, attempting to drop sirup of ipecac into a quarter of a glass of water, she lost track completely of her count. A pair of gray eyes persisted in gazing at her, and a voice, vibrating and enthusiastic, kept repeating, "Let's stay in, and talk!"
"Don't be an old-maid fool," Lucretia exclaimed out loud.
Little she guessed that ten miles away Thomas Hornby, smoking furiously, was scattering his desk with embryos of notes to her! "Dear Sarah Crewe: Will you be at home—," "Dear Cinderella: If you've nothing else to do—," "Dear Aunt Lucretia: I hope Bobbie—," "Dear Turtle," "Dear Kumquat Lady," "My dear Miss Hamilton," they read.
"Oh, confound it," Thomas Hornby exclaimed as a clock struck twelve. "I'll wait till morning, and telephone!"
Ten days later Lucretia and Thomas Hornby were sitting in the big living-room before the open fire, waiting for the arrival of Beatrice and Henry. They occupied a corner of the davenport. Lucretia's white fingers were interlaced with Thomas Hornby's. They sat as if listening to music or poetry, or something very beautiful outside the room, and remote.
