in masses over her shoulders.
Sisters undoubtedly, and the family resemblance of the fair-complexioned girl suggested the possibility of her occupying the same relationship, though the difference was so marked that cousin seemed more probable.
“Finish your own hair,” cried the girl upon the ottoman, in an angry voice. “I won’t wait any longer; I was up first;” and she banged down the circulating library novel she had been skimming.
“Shan’t!”
“Bring my hairbrush, Ruth.”
The girl addressed retained her hold of the massive plait that she was forming, and, snatching a well-worn hairbrush from the table, reached out as far as she could from the tether of plait that held her to the girl in the chair, when the brush was snatched from her, and sent whizzing through the air, narrowly missing the reader’s head, but putting an end to the reflective troubles of the unfortunate toilet-glass, which was struck right in the centre, and shivered into fragments.
“Oh!” ejaculated Ruth.
“Beast!” cried Marie, leaping up, sending her chair backwards, and dashing the French novel at her sister.
“Wretch! devil!” retorted the other, her creamy face flushing, her dark eyes scintillating with passion, and her ruddy lips parting from her regular white teeth, as she retaliated by throwing the book she held, but with a very bad aim.
For a moment it seemed as if blows were to follow, but after a short skirmish with a comb, an empty scent-bottle, and a pin-cushion, the beginner of the fight uttered a cry of triumph, and pounced upon the French novel.
“I wanted that,” she cried.
“Ruth, fetch back that book,” cried Marie.
“Please give me that book back, Clotilde,” said the obedient girl, as, crossing the room, she held out her hand to the angry beauty.
For answer, the maiden upon the box caught her by the wrist with both hands, bent her head rapidly down, and fixed her white teeth in the soft, round arm.
“There, take that, and I wish it was ’Rie’s. Now you stop here, and do my hair directly. Hateful little beast! why didn’t you come before?”
The blood flushed up in Ruth’s face, and little troubled lines made their appearance in her forehead as, after a piteous glance at the other sister, she began to brush the great flowing bands of dark hair waiting their turn.
“I don’t care,” said Marie, with all the aggravating petulance of a child. “Mine was just done.”
“But I’ve got the book,” retorted the other. “Be careful, little beast; don’t pull it out by the roots.”
She turned her face up sharply to the busy toiler, with the effect that she dragged her own hair, and this time she struck the girl so sharply on the cheek with the open hand that the tears started to her eyes.
“Nasty, spiteful, malicious wretch!” said Marie, giving the finishing touches to her own hair; “but you’ll have a good lecture for breaking the glass. Aunties will be angry.”
“I shall say Ruth did it,” said the girl.
“Just like you, Clo,” retorted the other.
“If you call me Clo again, I’ll – I’ll poison you.”
“Shall if I like: Clo, old Clo – Jew – Jew – Jew! There!”
As she spoke, Marie turned her mocking countenance to her sister, and finished off by making what children call “a face,” by screwing up her mouth and nose; desisting, however, as Clotilde made a dash at the water-glass to throw it at her head, and then made a feint of spitting at her in a feline way.
The whole affair seemed to be more the quarrel of vulgar, spoiled children of nine or ten than an encounter between a couple of grown women in the springtide of their youth, and Ruth silently glanced from one to the other with a troubled, half-pitying expression of countenance; but she did not speak until the noise had begun to lull.
“Please don’t say that I broke the glass,” she said at last.
“I shall. Hold your tongue, miss. She broke it through her wretched carelessness, didn’t she, ’Rie?”
“Give me back the French book, and I’ll tell you,” was the reply.
“Take your nasty old French book,” said Clotilde, throwing it back. “I’ve read it all, and it’s horribly naughty. Now, then, didn’t she break the glass?”
“Yes,” said Marie, arranging her shabby morning dress, and standing before the fragments of the toilet-glass, a handsome, lady-like girl, whose beauty no shabbiness of costume could conceal.
“There,” said Clotilde, “do you hear, Cindy? You broke the glass, and if you say you didn’t I’ll make your wretched little life miserable.”
“Very well, dear, I’ll say I did,” said Ruth calmly.
“Hist, ’Rie! The book!” whispered Clotilde, her sharp ears having detected a coming step.
Marie made a pantherine bound across the room, and thrust the book between the mattress and palliasse just as the handle rattled, and a tall, gaunt elderly woman entered the room.
She was not pleasant to look upon, for there was too much suggestion of a draped scaffold erected for the building of a female human figure about her hard square bony form, while her hard face, which seemed to wrinkle only about the forehead, as if it had never smiled since childhood, was not made more pleasant by the depth and darkness of the lines in her brow all being suggestive of the soap and flannel never probing their depths, which was not the case, however, for she was scrupulously clean, even to her blonde cap, and its side whiskers with a sad-coloured flower in each.
“Morning, children,” she said harshly. “Your aunts ’ll be down directly. You ought to be dressed by now.”
“Morning, nurse,” said the girls in chorus.
“Ruth’s so slow,” said Clotilde.
“Then do your hair yourself,” said the woman roughly. “Ruth, child, turn down that bed, and open the window.”
Their actions before her arrival had been those of children; she treated them like children, and they were as obedient and demure now as little girls, while the woman placed a large white jug containing a tablespoon upon the table, and a plain tumbler beside it.
Ruth began to open the bed, and Marie cast anxious eyes at the part where her French novel lay perdu.
“’Tisn’t physic morning again, nurse,” said Clotilde pettishly.
“Yes it is, miss, so don’t you grumble. You know it’s Wednesday as well as I do.”
Clotilde turned her head away, and gave her teeth an angry snap as she went on rapidly dressing, while the new arrival poured out half a tumbler of a dark-brown fluid from the jug, after giving the said jug a twirl round to amalgamate its contents. This tumbler was handed to Clotilde.
“I’m not ready, nurse,” she said pettishly; “leave it on the table, and we’ll take it. We shall be down
