All was in readiness as usual, but the girl herself was smileless,
heavy-eyed, and slack of step. That she had suffered both in body
and mind since the day before, the least observant person in the
world would have easily comprehended.
"I swan, Ida May!" gasped the old man. "Whatever's happened to you?"
"I did not sleep well, Uncle Ira," she told him faintly.
"Sleep? Why you look as though you'd been standing double watch for
a week of Sundays! I never see the beat! Has that crazy gal coming
here set ye all aback this way?"
"I--I am afraid so."
"'Tis a shame. I won't stand to have that gal come here again.
Prudence has been starting and crying out all night, too. She's as
much upset as you be. I cal'late you don't feel like shaving of me
this morning, Ida May."
"Oh, yes, I do, Uncle Ira! Don't mind how I look."
"But I do mind," he grumbled. "Folks' looks is a great p'int. I've
always held to it. Talk about a singed cat being better than it
looks--I doubt it!"
"People of my complexion always look worse after a sleepless night,"
explained Sheila, trying to smile at him.
"That's a pity, too. And I feel the need of being spruced up a good
deal myself this morning, Ida May," he continued.
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