Most likely they would call Lois down, or come over themselves,
for they were the most sociable, cosiest old couple you ever
knew. There was a great stopping at Lois's door, as the girls
walked past, for a bunch of the flowers she brought from the
country, or posies, as they called them, (Sam never would take
any to Jenny but "old man" and pinks,) and she always had them
ready in broken jugs inside. They were good, kind girls, every
one of them,--had taken it in turn to sit up with Lois last
winter all the time she had the rheumatism. She never forgot
that time,--never once.
Later in the evening you would see a man coming along, close by
the wall, with his head down, the same Margret had seen in the
mill,--a dark man, with gray, thin hair,--Joe Yare, Lois's old
father. No one spoke to him,-- people always were looking away
as he passed; and if old Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the steps
when he came up, they would say, "Good-evening, Mr. Yare," very
formally, and go away presently. It hurt Lois more than anything
else they could have done. But she bustled about noisily, so
that he would not notice it. If they saw the marks of the ill
life he had lived on his old face, she did not; his sad,
uncertain eyes may have been dishonest to them, but they were
nothing but kind to the misshapen little soul that he kissed so
warmly with a "Why, Lo, my little girl!" Nobody else in the
world ever called her by a pet name.
Sometimes he was gloomy and silent, but generally he told her of
all that had happened in the mill, particularly any little word
of notice or praise he might have received, watching her
anxiously until she laughed at it, and then rubbing his hands
cheerfully.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95