"Kingston," she said, gently, "do you know much about the poor?"
Kingston started and colored. She was a woman of more than thirty years of age—pale, thin, flat-chested, not very tall; she had fairly good features and dark, expressive eyes; but she was not attractive-looking. Her lips were too pale and her dark eyes too sunken for beauty. There was a gentleness in her manner, however, a patience in her low voice, which Lesley had always liked. It reminded her, in some undefined way, of her old friend, Sister Rose.
"I've lived among the poor all my life, ma'am," Kingston said.
"Do they suffer very much?" Lesley asked.
Kingston looked slightly puzzled. "Suffer, ma'am?"
"Yes—from hunger and cold, I mean: I have been reading about poor people in this book—and——"
Kingston cast a rapid glance at the volume. Her face kindled at once.
"Oh," she said, "I've read that book, ma'am, and what a beautiful book it is!"
"Do you know it?" Lesley asked, amazed. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, "And you know it was written by my father?"
Who would have thought that she could say the last two words with such an accent of tender pride?