“Fancy,” said Lettie, “those boys are working for me!”
We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the kitchen about half past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat in the shadows. On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass vase with five or six very beautiful Christmas roses.
“Hullo, Becka, who’s sent you these?” said I.
“They’re not sent,” replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with suspicion of tears in her voice.
“Why! I never saw them in the garden.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve watched them these three weeks, and kept them under glass.”
“For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought some one must have sent them to you.”
“It’s little as ’as ever been sent me,” replied Rebecca, “an’ less as will be.”
“Why—what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Who’m I, to have anything the matter! Nobody—nor ever was, nor ever will be. And I’m getting old as well.”
“Something’s upset you, Becky.”
“What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o’ fal-de-rol flowers as a gardener clips off wi’ never a thought is preferred before mine as I’ve fettled after this three-week. I can sit at home to keep my flowers company—nobody wants ’em.”
I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot-house flowers; she was excited and full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her quick “Oh
