"Sunrise side?"
"Yes—"
"Good. If you hear a pebble on the pane early tomorrow morning, will you look out?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I am going to take you to church." The laughter died out of his eyes as he stood looking up at her. "Hildegarde, I want to say my prayers with you—on Christmas morning."
She had nothing in answer to that but quick-drawn breath, tear-wet eyes. "I'll go," she whispered after a moment, and he watched her as she went upstairs.
Delia, waiting for Hildegarde, was arrayed smartly in a maid's dress of gray, a swiss apron with ruffles, and a matching cap with a lavender bow. Miss Anne had given them to her, and Delia was ecstatic.
"Honey-chile," she said, as Hildegarde complimented her, "I has dreamed of lookin' like this in Heaven, but nevah on dis yearth."
"What does Sampson think of you?"
"He say I'll be gittin' a devorce and marryin' a handsomer man. Sampson's got rheumatism in his feet, Honey-chile, an' he say he's got no eye fo' fumdiddles."
But whatever Sampson lacked in appreciation of sartorial attractions was made up by his wife's absorption in them.
"Mis' Sally's got on silver lace," she said, "an' 'er head's tied up in a silver ribbon. An' if she doan tek her death of col' 'thout anything on her back and arms, I'll miss my guess."
