THE house where Mary stopped was of red brick, old-fashioned and stiff-looking, and it stood on an old-fashioned terrace, raised high above the road. There was one window beside the door, and two windows above, and two windows again over that.
"Is the whole of the house yours?" I asked, thinking it wasn't a pretty house, after my dear old country home.
"No," said she. "Only the dining-room and two back bedrooms."
Then she went in, leading the way. It was a narrow dark sort of passage, with faded oilcloth on the floor. I groped along after her; and when she turned into the first room, that was almost as dark, Mary struck a light, and nobody was there except ourselves.
"Your mother must be upstairs," said she. "Sit down, Kitty."
I did as she bade me, tired enough to be glad to rest after my journey and long walk. I was longing and yet dreading to see mother. What if she turned from me still? if she was always to turn from me for the rest of my life?
Mary put the candle on the mantel-shelf, and it lighted up the room dimly—only a small room, with poor furniture: old black horse-hair chairs, and a black horse-hair sofa, and a table, and a sort of little sideboard.
"I get through my dressmaking in this room," said she. "Happily I have plenty of work—more than I can do alone. I had to refuse two orders only last week. Why shouldn't you and I make a good thing of it, Kitty?" and she smiled, to cheer me up.
"I like pretty work, and mother always says I'm quick. But I shouldn't like to sit all day long in this room."
"Ah, we can't always do just what we like in life," says she quietly; "can we, Kitty?"