“I’m afraid,” said Andy, “that I’ve come at the wrong time, Mrs. Simpson. I’ll call again.”
Mrs. Simpson, who was a fair woman with a meek brow and an obstinate mouth, motioned him to a seat.
“Everything’s ready,” she said. “We go into the little cottage near you to-night. My husband’s cousins, the Thorpes, wanted us to stop with them for a few days, but I felt I couldn’t.”
“I hope—I hope you’ll be comfortable in your new home,” said Andy, who was not glib at consolation.
Mrs. Simpson crossed her hands on her lap.
“Oh, I shall be comfortable enough. My husband’s family have behaved well. They have clubbed together to make me and the children a little allowance—and they’re buying in all the furniture we need.”
Andy rose. He could not find anything to say to a woman years older than himself, who had lost her husband and her home—so, of course, he was a poor sort of parson.
“Is there a garden in your new home? May I send you some flowers?” he asked, going towards the door.
“Thank you; but flowers make dirt in a little house.”
They were near the big sideboard now, and in his confusion Andy caught his elbow in the corner.