She reached a cautious hand under
her pillow and drew out her soap-dish. "Please get rid of it for me,"
she whispered, "and wash the dish. I couldn't bear not to seem to eat
it, so I slipped it in there."
Striving to smother his mirth, Lanse bore the soap-dish away. Returning
with it, he carefully replaced the soap and set the dish on the stand,
where it had been within Celia's reach. "I wish I had had a soap-dish at
the table," he remarked, "but the cook's eye was upon me, and I had to
stand up to it. But see here. I've a letter for you--from Uncle
Rayburn."
Celia stretched an eager hand, for a letter from Uncle John
Rayburn--middle-aged, a bachelor, and an ex-army officer, retired by an
incurable injury which did not make him the less the best uncle in the
world--could not fail to be welcome. But she had not read a page before
she dropped the sheet and stared helplessly and anxiously at Lanse.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Why, Uncle Rayburn writes that he would like to come to spend the
winter with us," answered Celia.
"What luck!"
"Luck--with Charlotte in the kitchen?"
"Uncle Ray is a crack-a-jack of a cook himself.
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