"I did." He drew her on his knees. "Did you say you said your
prayers in French?"
"Every night, unless for punishment I have to say a German one.
Channing just shuffles his out and runs all the words together so I
don't believe even God can understand them. I don't like French
prayers."
"Then why do you say them?"
"Oh, we have to! All the children I know say their prayers in
French. One day six of us had a race to see which could say them
fastest and say the most. I beat. Want to hear me?"
"Indeed I don't!" Laine's voice was emphatic. "But I don't like
French prayers for little American girls. I never cared for parrots
or--"
"What kind do you say, French or American?" Dorothea was stroking
her uncle's fingers one by one. "I always say my real prayers inside
after I get in bed--that is, if I'm not too sleepy; and they're just
plain talking to the Lord. You see, we are not allowed to speak one
word except in French to Antoinette, and mother likes us to speak it
to her, only she is always in such a hurry she forgets half the time.
We speak English to father, all right, though; father says French for
breakfast is all foolishness, and I think so, too. We take breakfast
with father every morning, and we just have a grand time. Mother is
never very well in the mornings, so she don't get up; but we take
lunch with her when there isn't company and she isn't going out. Did
you know the Dufferns had a new baby at their house?"
Laine shook his head.
"They have. It's a girl. They had four girls already, and Julia
says they're going to change their doctor. He always brings girls."
"Madam-oiselle Dor-othea!"
Dorothea slipped from her uncle's lap. "I know what that means.
Whenever she says 'Madam-ois-elle Doro-thea!' through her nose it's a
German prayer. Good night." And this time she was gone.
Laine followed her to the steps to take upon himself the
responsibility of her delay, and as he came back in the room he
glanced at the clock and took out his watch. It wouldn't do for a
girl from the country to get into New York alone at this time of
night, and, of course, he would have to meet her; but why did she
come at this hour of night? Ringing for his coat and hat, he put
them on, then stopped to light a cigar, and as the match was held to
it the front door-bell rang sharply. A moment later some one was
talking to Timkins.
"Is this Mr. Warrick's residence?"
The voice that asked the question was fresh and clear, and carried
easily to where he stood. He looked around quickly as if for escape.
"Yes'm." He could picture the bow Timkins was making. Timkins was
the politest person he knew. "Yes'm, and this is Miss Keith, isn't
it? Just come in, ma'm, we're expecting of you, though your train
must have been a little earlier than usual, ma'm. Mr. Warrick is out
of town, and Mrs. Warrick had a pressing engagement which couldn't be
denied, but she left messages for you, and I think a note. Yes'm,
just this way." And Timkins, knowing Laine was in the library, led
the stranger past the door and up the steps, over the banisters of
which was heard from Dorothea a cry of delight.
"Oh, my Cousin Claudia! My Cousin Claudia! I'm so glad you've come!
I'm so glad!"
A laugh as fresh as the dawn of perfect morning followed the kisses
next heard, and then the new voice spoke again.
"You precious child! I'm so glad you're glad. It's so nice to have
somebody glad to see you!"
V