“Papa,” said my sister Effie, one evening as we all sat about the drawing-room fire. One after another, as nothing followed, we turned our eyes upon her. There she sat, still silent, embroidering the corner of a cambric handkerchief, apparently unaware that she had spoken.
It was a very cold night in the beginning of winter. My father had come home early, and we had dined early that we might have a long evening together, for it was my father’s and mother’s wedding-day, and we always kept it as the homeliest of holidays. My father was seated in an easy-chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of Burgundy near him, and my mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out of his glass.
Effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us were younger. What she was thinking about we did not know then, though we could all guess now. Suddenly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon her, became either aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy red.
“You spoke to me, Effie. What was it, my dear?”
“O yes, papa. I wanted to ask you whether you wouldn’t tell us, tonight, the story about how you—”
“Well, my love?”
“—About how you—”
“I am listening, my dear.”
“I mean, about mamma and you.”
“Yes, yes. About how I got your mamma for a mother to you. Yes. I paid a dozen of port for her.”