Angel's Brother

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER
IT was a dull little sitting-room on the third floor of a dingy lodging-house, in an unfashionable London suburb. The pale rays of November sunshine peeping through the window panes enhanced the shabbiness of the apartment with its cheap, much-worn furniture, and ugly wall-paper, its pretentious mirror in a tarnished gilded frame above the mantel-piece, and the ill-chosen ornaments which were doubtless supposed to add attractiveness to the whole.
The sole occupant of the room, at present, was a little girl of about eleven years of age. Her name was Angelica Willis, but she was always called Angel. She was a slight, pale child, with a gentle, sweet-tempered face, which, if not exactly pretty, was very pleasing by reason of a pair of honest, grey eyes—true reflectors of every thought which crossed their owner's mind. Now, the grey eyes were misty and sad in expression, for Angel was thinking of her mother, who had died two years before, and recalling all that she had said the last time they had talked together. In imagination she could hear the dear, faltering voice murmuring feebly—
You'll be loving and patient with Gerald, won't you, little daughter? You'll remember he's younger than you are, and be a good elder sister to him, won't you, dear?
Gerald was Angel's brother, eighteen months her junior, and she had readily given her mother the desired promise. It was not difficult to be good to Gerald, for she loved him dearly; she had been in the habit of studying his wishes all her life; and she was capable of loving without selfishness, asking little in return. Love feels no burden; thinks nothing a trouble, was true in her case.
Gerald had been the mother's favourite of the two children; but that knowledge had not caused Angel one jealous pang. She was too fond of her brother herself to begrudge him the first share of any one's affection; and now when the dear, indulgent mother was no longer there to wait upon him, she faithfully tried to fill her place, and was his willing slave, darning his socks, mending his clothes, helping him with his lessons evenings—in fact, being generally employed either by or for him in one way or another. Angel regarded herself in the light of a failure. Her father, an artist, 'had named her Angelica, after Angelica Kauffmann, and had fondly hoped that she would inherit his talent for painting, and follow in the footsteps of her namesake; he had anticipated that she would be endowed with what he called the artistic temperament; but Angel had proved somewhat of a disappointment. She had never evinced the least taste for drawing, whereas she had early taken to a needle and thimble, and had learnt to sew, and assist her mother with her household duties at an age when most children show distinct dislike to such domestic employments; but to help mother had been Angel's greatest pleasure.