Old Rose and Silver | Page 8

the best of a
man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife, the
picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that comprehended a
world of love and anguish and bereavement--these were the hidden
chambers of his heart.
Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do
you suppose those are diamonds?"

"No; only brilliants."
"I thought so. If they'd been diamonds, he would never have left them
here."
"On the contrary," answered Rose, "I'm very sure he would." She had
met Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he
had spent at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him
now, nevertheless.
They went on through the house, making notes of what was needed,
while their footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the empty rooms.
"I'm glad there are no carpets, except on the stairs," said Rose, "for rugs
are much easier to clean. It resolves itself simply into three C's--coal,
curtains, and cleaning. It won't take long, if we can get enough people
to work at it."
It was almost dusk when they went downstairs, but the cold slanting
sunbeams of a Winter afternoon came through the grimy windows and
illumined the gloomy depths of the open fireplace in the hall. Motes
danced in the beam, and the house somehow seemed less despairing,
less alone. A portrait of Colonel Kent, in uniform, hung above the great
mantel. Rose smiled at it with comprehension, but the painted lips did
not answer, nor the unseeing eyes swerve from their steady searching
of Beyond.
"How was it?" asked Madame, when they reached home. "Dirty and
bad?"
"Rather soiled," admitted Rose.
"And colder than Greenland," Isabel continued, warming her hands at
the open fire.
"We'll soon change all that," Madame said. "I've ordered coal and
engaged people to do the cleaning since you've been gone, and I have
my eye upon two permanent retainers, provided their references are
satisfactory."

"I've measured for all the curtains," Rose went on. "Shall we make
them or buy them?"
"We'll make them. If we have help enough we can get them done in
time."
The following day a small army, with Rose at the head of it, took
possession of the house. Every night she came home exhausted, not
from actual toil, but from the effort to instill the pride of good service
into unwilling workers who seemed to rejoice in ignorance.
"I'm tired," Rose remarked, one night. "I've cerebrated all day for seven
bodies besides my own and I find it wearing."
"I don't wonder," answered Madame. "I'll go over to-morrow and let
you rest."
"Indeed you won't," declared Rose, with emphasis. "I've begun it and
I'm going to finish it unless the Seven Weary Workers fail me
absolutely."
At last the task was completed, and even Rose could find no speck of
dust in the entire establishment. The house was fresh with the smell of
soap-suds and floor wax and so warm that several windows had to be
kept open. The cablegram had come while the curtains were being
made, but everything was ready two days before the wayfarers could
possibly reach home.
On the appointed day, Rose and Isabel were almost as excited as
Madame Bernard herself. She had chosen to go over alone to greet the
Colonel and his son. They were expected to arrive about four in the
afternoon.
At three, Madame set forth in her carriage. She wore her best gown, of
lavender crepe, trimmed with real lace, and a bunch of heliotrope at her
belt. Rose had twined a few sprays of heliotrope into her snowy hair
and a large amethyst cross hung from her neck by a slender silver chain.
She wore no other jewels except her wedding ring.

Fires blazed cheerily in every fireplace on the lower floor, and there
was another in the sitting-room upstairs. She had filled the house with
the flowers of Spring--violets, daffodils, and lilies of the valley. A
silver tea-kettle with a lamp under it waited on the library table.
When she heard the wheels creaking in the snowy road, Madame
lighted the lamp under the kettle with her own hands, then opened the
door wide. Followed by their baggage, the two men came up the
walk--father and son.
The Colonel was a little older, possibly, but still straight and tall--
almost as tall as the son who walked beside him, carrying a violin case
under his arm. He wore the familiar slouch hat, the same loose overcoat,
and the same silvery goatee, trimmed most carefully. His blue eyes
lighted up warmly at the sight of the figure in the doorway.
"Welcome home!" cried Madame Francesca, stretching a hand toward
each. "Welcome home!"
Allison only smiled, taking the little hand in