"Mother gave me this old picture of Aunt Mary—"
Eliza pulled herself up and took it eagerly. "I must get my glasses," she said. "I've cried myself nearly blind."
Phil's big hand pushed her back.
"I'll get them," he returned. "Where are they?"
"There, on the end o' the mantelpiece. I had 'em, readin' an advertisement."
She leaned back again and watched him as he crossed the room; watched him with wonder. In years she had not so given her confidence to a human being.
She put on the spectacles and wistfully regarded the picture of a pretty woman whose heavy braids, wound around her head, caught the light. Her plain dress was white and she wore black velvet bands on her wrists.
"Aunt Mary was considered different by her friends, mother says. In a time of frills she liked plain things."
"I guess she was different," agreed Eliza devoutly. "Would you think a man who married her would like whiskey better?"