“I don’t feel a bit like taking a walk!” Rosaleen protested, but in vain.
“All the more reason for going!” said Miss Amy. “That sluggishness is a symptom. Run along now!”
She stood by grimly while the miserable and reluctant girl got ready and went out. Then she went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and she saw hanging up on a rack one of her blouses, beautifully laundered that morning by the child who said she had a headache. It hung before her, soft, lustrous, every little gather in place, the collar so crisp and smooth, the embroidery standing out in fine relief. It looked like.... Did it look like a reproach?
IV
Saturday followed, a busy day, devoted to house-cleaning. Rosaleen swept and dusted and cleaned, took down curtains, beat rugs and sofa cushions, and baked a cake, all according to custom. And Sunday, too, passed as it always did. They all went to church in the morning, and spent the afternoon in dignified drowsiness. Even Rosaleen was affected; she sat in the front room with them, reading a book, but near the window, so that from time to time, when there was an interesting sound of footsteps or voices, she could look out into the street. So many couples going by, arm in arm....
On Monday she was quite ready to go to Miss Waters’ again. Art had lost its charm, to be sure, but it was something after all. Very little compared to Love, but a great deal when compared to solitary confinement.
She went into the studio and sat down before her still unfinished landscape, opened her paint box, and tried to begin her work.
“Is that you, Rosaleen?” called a cheerful voice from the bedroom.
“Yes, Miss Waters.”
“You naughty girl!”