"Weren't you obliged to do it?" she inquired hopelessly.
"No, certainly not. I used to get up in the early morning, and get a piece done before breakfast."
More and more astonishing. "Not in winter, auntie."
"Yes, in winter."
Hecla gave it up as a hopeless case. She was generally wide-awake enough at night, but profoundly drowsy in the morning—at least, in winter mornings.
"I shouldn't like to have to hem a sheet. It would take me—oh, I think a whole, whole year."
"Not unlikely, at your present rate."
Hecla understood, and felt ashamed. She picked up the handkerchief which lay at her feet and set to work anew. Silence actually lasted for nearly five minutes, by which time she felt that she was almost rivalling Miss Storey's past goodness.
It was a fair-sized room in which they sat, crowded with heavy old-fashioned furniture. Each chair, not in use, stood rigidly with its back against the wall, only never touching it, for fear the pretty paper might be rubbed or scratched. The semi-grand piano—on which nobody ever played, for Hecla practised on another—was laden with handsome old china and framed photographs, always arranged in the same manner. On the mantelpiece were a number of valuable vases, placed in a row. An ornamental corner bookcase held many handsome calf-bound volumes, each of which had invariably the same neighbours.
Miss Storey and her sister disliked changes. They had lived here all their lives, seldom going away even for a short time; and they did their best to keep everything both inside and outside the house exactly what it had always been. That, at least, was Miss Storey's aim; and whether Miss Anne felt the same or not, she seldom differed from her sister.