Two or three really fine engravings were on the walls, and in one corner stood a straight-legged, old piano, with an embroidered stool.
Two persons sat in this room, at nightfall, on the day Eva Laurence made her little outburst of pride in that fashionable establishment down town. One was a tall, spare woman, about fifty years of age, perhaps, originally from New England, as you might detect from a certain peculiarity of speech, and the constant occupation she found for her hands, even while seated in that roomy easy-chair. The other was a young girl, seemingly about fourteen at a first glance; but on a second look, you saw traces of thought and of pain on that noble face, which took your judgment in a few years. The girl was near the age of her sister Eva; in fact, there was not a year between them, and if that had been all, they might have passed for twins. But there the resemblance ended. Nothing could be more unlike the rich coloring and perfect figure of Eva than the pale delicacy and wonderful expression of this girl on the couch.
“Mother!”
How sweet and low that voice was! This one incomparable word seemed rippling off into music, full of tenderness and gentle pathos.
“Well, Ruth, what is it? Shall I move the cushions?”
“No, mother; but you seem thoughtful. Has anything gone wrong that I do not know of?”
“Wrong? No! It is only the one old trouble!”
“The house?”
“Yes. I am afraid, Ruth, that we shall have to give it up. The mortgage will be due this year——”
“But Eva thought——”