“Come, your supper is ready. Dear me, what a long day you have had!” and she glanced at the bag, understanding at once what had kept him to such an hour.
“How are the youngsters?”
“Asleep since nine.”
Catherine took his coat and hat, and his as they went into the little front room together. A coke fire glowed in the diminutive grate, a saucepan full of soup stood steaming on the trivet. Murchison sat down at the table that was half covered by a white cloth. At the other end lay his wife’s work-basket, with a dozen pairs of socks and stockings. Her eyes had been tired before the opening of the garden gate. Now they were bright and vital, for love had wiped all weariness away—that heroic, quiet love that conquers a thousand sordid trifles.
“Saturday is always busy with her, he would sanction
everything at oncehe answered.
.”
“I know,” and she smiled as she poured him out his soup.
“I think we had nearly a hundred people to-night. Thanks, dear, thanks,” and he touched her hand.
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