THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
watched the greetings, sadly, with an envy that would not be smothered! And the holiday boxes! Regularly she used to receive a check. But checks could come any time; there was nothing Christmasy about slips of paper that represented money. She had wanted boxes like the others, and boxes had never come.
Still, she had been happy in those days. Beautiful Florence! The roses in the spring up the road to Fiesole, the afternoon drives in the lovely Cascine, and the rides into the Tuscany hills! Il grillo!—the lucky crickets! Each Maytime she had gone with her companions into the park and caught a singing cricket for luck and put him into a funny little wire cage, and night after night he would saw away at his fiddle (whether in rage or in happiness she never knew) until she set him free. Il grillo! That's what the Sisters had called her.
She choked and rested her head on the cold window-sill—and raised it almost instantly. Somewhere in the house the floors, the wooden floors, were talking. She listened intently. The sound came from above, directly overhead, from the store-
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