big hand pushed her back.
"I'll get them," he returned. "Where are they?"
"There, on the end o' the mantelpiece. I had 'em, readin' an advertisement."
She leaned back again and watched him as he crossed the room; watched him with wonder. In years she had not so given her confidence to a human being.
She put on the spectacles and wistfully regarded the picture of a pretty woman whose heavy braids, wound around her head, caught the light. Her plain dress was white and she wore black velvet bands on her wrists.
"Aunt Mary was considered different by her friends, mother says. In a time of frills she liked plain things."
"I guess she was different," agreed Eliza devoutly. "Would you think a man who married her would like whiskey better?"
Phil shook his head. "Sorry," he said, laconically.
"One good thing, he drank himself to death quick and left her free."
Phil held out the letter.
"Read it to me, please, Mr. Sidney."
"Can't do it," returned the young man with cheerful frankness. "It makes my nose tingle every time."
So Eliza read the letter in silence. It took her some minutes and when she had finished, her lip caught between her teeth, she took off her glasses and wiped them while she regarded Phil.
"And you've got to live up to that," she said.
"I'm going to try," he answered simply.
Eliza gazed at him, her hands in her lap. She felt old beside his youth, weak beside his strength, ignorant beside that knowledge which had stirred her mistress to exaltation. Nevertheless, the humble love, and desire to help him that swelled her heart was a new desire to live, a consecration.
Presently he took his leave, promising to return in a few days for his belongings.
After the door had closed behind him, she looked down at the cat, who had awakened from another nap at the stir of the departure.
He rubbed against her brown calico skirt as she lighted the gas; then she moved thoughtfully to the mantelpiece and turned the sketches about.
"Mary Sidney," she mused, looking at the graceful head of Phil's mother, "you've had your heartache, and your sacrifices. You've been most pulled in two, between longin' to stay with your husband and follow your son – you told me somethin' of it in your note thankin' for the brooch. Nobody escapes, Mary Sidney. I guess I haven't done you justice, seein' you've raised a boy like that."
Turning to the sketch of the storm-beaten tree, she clasped her hands before it. "Dear one," she mused tenderly, "you loved him. You was great. You died not knowin' how great you were; and you won't care if I do understand this kind better, 'cause all America's too ignorant for you, and I'm one o' the worst."
Her eyes dwelt lingeringly on the sketch. She fancied she could hear the wind whistling through the writhing branches. "It looks like my life," she thought, "risin' out o' the mist and the cloud."
She gazed at it in silence, then turned to the destroyed photograph. She seized the pieces quickly and turned them face up. The rent had missed the chin and cut across the collar. She regarded the face wistfully. The cat stretched his forepaws up her skirt until he was of a preternatural length. It was supper-time.
"I wonder, Pluto," she said slowly, "if I couldn't fit that into a minicher frame. Some of 'em come real reasonable."
CHAPTER V
ELIZA'S INVITATION
For the first time since she had been left alone, Eliza drank her tea that night without tears; and no lump in her throat prevented her swallowing the egg she had boiled.
She held Mrs. Ballard's watch in her hand a minute before getting into bed; and looked long at its gold face, and listened to its loud and busy ticking.
"Forgive me, Mrs. Ballard," she thought; and association added, "as we forgive our debtors!"
"No, I can't!" she muttered fiercely. "I can't! What's the use o' pretendin'!"
Muffling the watch in its slipper, she turned out the gas and got into bed. Composing herself to sleep more peacefully than she had been able to do for many a night, her last thought was of Mrs. Ballard's heir; and a sense of comfort stole over her in the very fact of his existence. Again she seemed to feel the sympathetic pressure of his kind hand.
"He thinks she may be paintin' still," she reflected. "She's got colors to work with that's most blindin', they're so gorgeous, if we can judge anything by the sunsets at the island. Why not think so! It's just as reasonable as playin' harps, for all I can see."
Ever since her dear one's passing, Eliza had felt too crushed and too wicked to pray; and being unable to say the whole of her Lord's Prayer, her New England conscience would not allow her to say any of it; but to-night a sense of hope and gratitude lightened the darkness, and a new gentleness crept over her countenance as it relaxed its lines in slumber.
She wakened next morning without the load of despair on her heart; and slowly realized what had changed her outlook. She even smiled at the cat, who had leaped up on the foot of her bed. He understood that he might come no nearer.
"Every single mornin', Pluto, I've been dreadin' that the day had come I'd got to show her pictures to him. Well, that's over."
"Meow!" remarked Pluto, commenting on the selfishness of beings who overslept.
"Yes, I know what you want." Eliza turned her head wearily on the pillow. "'Weak as a cat'! I don't think much o' that expression. I notice you're strong enough to get everything you want. Oh, dear, I wonder if I'll ever feel like myself again!"
The cat jumped to the floor, and coming to the head of the bed sat down and regarded the haggard face reproachfully.
"You're just as handsome as a picture, Pluto," mused Eliza aloud. "I don't know as it's ever made you any worse 'n common cats."
This optimistic change of heart lightened the atmosphere of the cheerless kitchen that morning; and Eliza drew up the shade, which let the sun slant in past a neighboring roof for a short half-hour.
A beam struck the kittens frisking above the kitchen table, and they seemed to spring from the shadowy gloom of their corner, flinging their little paws about with the infantine glee which had first captivated their owner.
"Oh, yes, you can dance, still," she murmured, addressing them reproachfully; but she left the shade up.
It was nearly noon when her doorbell rang again. Eliza hastened to the glass. She had on her black alpaca to-day. Sweeping-cap and apron were remanded to their corner, and she made certain that her hair was smooth, then went to the speaking-tube.
"Yes?" she said, and listened for the possible voice of yesterday; but a woman's tones put the question: —
"Is this Mrs. Ballard's apartment?"
"Yes," replied Eliza briefly.
"Is this Eliza Brewster?" again asked the sweet voice.
"It is," came the non-committal admission.
