Of all the days that are in the week,
I dearly love but one day.
That is the day that comes between
Saturday and Monday.
For then I dress all in my best
And roam with my dear Sally;
She’s the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
She pushed the door open and entered. Her cheeks were glowing from her walk in the bracing morning air, but her face assumed a serious, questioning look as she discovered Will just finishing up his self-imposed morning task. He gave an extra flourish to the brushes to cover his confusion and annoyance, and kept right on polishing off the little heater with his dubious-looking black cloths well filled with stove polish.
“Well!” she exclaimed.
“Good morning,” returned Will, with a businesslike flourish of his cloth, as, having finished the stove, he proceeded to touch up the bright piece of zinc under it. “How will she take it?” he asked himself.
“Well!” she repeated.
“Quite well, thank you,” said Will, this time with a quizzical grin on his face.
“I had no idea you were the fireman, Mr. Smith.”
“No? In the words of Doctor Peters, ‘I do mos’ anythin’ in the wurl, honey, to git an hones’ livin’ without stealin’ it.”
Will had donned one of his mother’s ample kitchen aprons for the protection of his clothing. The bib was pinned well up in front across the broad expanse of shirt bosom; the ample folds of the apron-skirt enveloped his limbs to his ankles; the long strings, crossed in the back, met in front in a huge bowknot. There was a streak of smut across one eye, and the side of his nose was polished to perfection. The picture was too much for Sappho, and peal after peal of laughter shook her slight frame.
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” she said, when she could find breath, “you do look so funny!”
“ ‘ ’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour,’ ” quoted Will, marching up to the mirror to survey his beauty spots; “I do look rather fetching,” he continued, with a confidential smile at his laughing companion.
“Do you do this every day?” asked Sappho, suddenly sobering down.
“Do what every day?”
“Why, make my fire?”
“It’s not your fire any more than anyone else’s fire.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry! sorry about what? It isn’t a crime, is it, for a man to make a fire for his women folks?”
“But I’m not your ‘women folks.’ ”
“Look here,” said Will in an aggrieved tone, balancing a hod of ashes in one hand and a pile of stove brushes in the other, “are we going to quarrel?”
“There is no reason why we should if we agree,” said Sappho, smiling gravely.
“That means that we shan’t quarrel if I agree to whatever you are going to propose. What is it you want to say?” he asked, becoming grave in his turn. “Is it that I have behaved unmanly in visiting your room in your absence? Why cavil about a little thing of that sort? I do this for you as I would for Dora.”
“Oh, if you look at it that way”—she began, a trifle confused by his apparent unconsciousness.
“How else ought I to look at it?”
“How horrid you are.”
“Horrid! I don’t see what I’ve said that is so very dreadful.”
“You speak so—well—so cross.”
“I speak like a man talking to a silly girl.”
“Now you are rude again; calling me names.”
“Children must be kept in their places,” he said banteringly.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Of course I am. What do you expect?”
“But you mustn’t make my fire again.”
“I am sorry you found it out; I didn’t intend you to know it.”
“I can’t pay for having the work done, and it is not proper for you to do it; there is no reason why you should do such work for me.”
“Suppose we play you are my other sister; that will make it all right, won’t it?”
“No,” came firmly from Sappho’s lips; “no more fires.”
“See here, I’ve hit it! Play I’m your father.”
“Ridiculous!”
“What, neither brother nor father? How’d it do to imagine that you’re my mother? You can’t find fault with that, surely.”
“How silly you are.”
“No likee me for sonny?” queried Will, with a sad shake of his head.
“If you don’t leave this room instantly, William Smith, I’ll call your mother,” replied Sappho, laughing in spite of herself.
“The best play, though, would be sweethearts,” he continued, as though she had not spoken.
“Sweethearts!”
“Yes, sweethearts; and I believe I could win the game, too, in spite of your reserve.”
“You must be very sure of your power, young man. You need a lesson in diffidence.” He held her gaze for a moment, and there was so much earnestness in the persistent dark eyes that she blushed furiously. He turned and abruptly left the room. No more was said about the fire, but Will continued to perform common everyday duties for her the same as for his sister. She did her part, too. Many an evening he found her helping Dora darning socks or replacing lost buttons. Will’s manner had changed toward her from that day; from easy familiarity it changed to a mixture of timid reserve and marked deference. Sappho noticed it, but somehow she liked it better. It spoke to her silently of tender, sacred thoughts. Tonight he thought of the scene just pictured, as he sat there in his room. She and none other should be his wife—God willing.
In
