things are wearing to one’s nerves, and people here in this neighborhood seemed to get up at about sunrise. Ah! there’s mother,” she exclaimed, as she heard the front door open. “Now we ’ll have dinner.”
It was a plain little room, although tastefully furnished, in which Mrs. Redmond and Fritz and Amy sat down to dinner a half hour later. The walls were kalsomined a greenish gray, and two or three good photographs of foreign scenes hung there, with a fine water-color sketch—evidently a bit of New England landscape—over the mantelpiece. In the centre of the table was a low bowl filled with nasturtiums, and the china and glass, though not expensive, were of good quality.
It took Amy some time to arrange the little tray for the invalid upstairs; and when it was ready, with nothing forgotten,—pepper-pot, salt-cellar, butter-balls, and the many other little things besides the main articles of food,—Fritz hastened forward to offer his services.
“Now you really must let me carry it.”
“What nonsense! it is n’t heavy; besides, cousin Joan does n’t like boys.”
“Then I ’ll take it to the head of the stairs. You can carry it into the room.”
“You might as well let him,” said Mrs. Redmond, with a smile. “I would never discourage a boy from making himself useful in little ways around the house.”
So the two young people, with light hearts and willing hands, carried the tray upstairs. Fritz soon returned.
“I did n’t go in,” he said, with a grimace. “By the
