"I suppose my black velvet will do, won't it?" said Nora, looking up from the newspaper in which she was, at the moment, reading a paragraph describing the miseries of poor sewing-women, and the pittance for which they are often compelled to give their long hours of toil.
"Well, I suppose so," said her sister-in-law, discontentedly, "though that black velvet certainly does seem too old for you. Why not wear that pretty écru and black lace costume?"
"But then," objected Nora, "I wore it at Mrs. Farrell's musical-party, and I don't want to wear it quite so soon again. Besides, this won't be a very big party."
"Not big, certainly, but awfully swell. Mrs. Pomeroy's dinner-parties always are. Just wait till you see! However, your black velvet does look quite elegant, and that old lace of Aunt Margaret's and her pearl cross look just lovely with it! They suit you, somehow; so perhaps you couldn't do better. But I wish you would get a new dress; crushed-strawberry satin would be so becoming, and you'll want it, for you will be going out a good deal this winter."
"No," said Nora, "I couldn't think of getting anything more now; I have all I really need, and it seems horrible to think of getting more than one needs, when some people have to live like this!" and she read aloud the paragraph that had caught her eye.
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Blanchard, "I wish you weren't always seeing such things. There always was and there always will be misery in the world, but what good does it do any one to make yourself miserable about it? And if you get a new dress made, doesn't that help somebody?"
Nora was always perplexed when other people's notions of political economy were arrayed on the side of selfish expenditure. Was the world built up on selfishness after all? If so, where was the place of self-sacrifice? But it did not seem as if it "helped people" very much "to wear out their lives" in return for the barest subsistence.
That afternoon, she took little Cecilia on a second visit to her mother. It was very cold, and the snow lay white on the hard, frozen streets; but Nora, well wrapped in her furs, felt the cold, keen air as exhilarating as a tonic, as they walked briskly on to the hospital, the child also wrapped warmly in the mufflings that Nora's care had provided. She had begun to be a little more communicative, but was evidently a fitful, uncertain child; in general reserved and quiet, though subject to fits of extreme excitability, in which it seemed as if nothing but music could soothe her. Both Dr. Blanchard and Nora had been studying her with much interest, the doctor declaring that under-feeding and a life of unnatural confinement and solitude must be responsible for many of her peculiarities. At the hospital, Miss Blanchard found Mrs. Travers getting on favorably. She showed more pleasure at seeing her child than on the previous occasion, and, in reply to Nora's inquiries, expressed herself as very comfortable there. "It would be strange if I were not," she added, "every one is so kind, Miss Spencer especially. She couldn't be kinder, if I were her sister."
And again Miss Blanchard was struck with her unusual refinement of tone and manner as well as of language. But she seemed rather shy and ill at ease, Nora thought, and she was about to turn aside to look up at Miss Spencer, when a gentle knock sounded, and Lizzie Mason entered. The invalid was evidently genuinely glad to see her, and held her hand, as if she could not let it go. Nora, as she watched them for a few moments, was pained to see that Lizzie looked as if she had been crying, and seemed particularly sad and depressed.
"I did not think of seeing you here," said Nora; "I thought you were engaged at this hour."