Mrs. Holland began to descend, and halfway down the flight she met Hilda, carrying a tray.
“I’ll take it to Miss Joyce, Hilda,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” replied Hilda firmly. “Don’t you bother.”
“I’d like to, Hilda,” returned Mrs. Holland with equal firmness.
“It’s too heavy, ma’am.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Holland.
Her hands, cool and slender, grasped the tray and came into contact with Hilda’s roughened fingers; and Hilda, the vassal, was somehow shocked by this.
“All right, ma’am,” she agreed.
Mrs. Holland took the tray and turned back. She heard a miserable little sniffle from Hilda, but she dared not take notice of it. She was not prepared to give consolation to other people this morning.
She set the tray down on the floor, and opened one of those closed doors. It was like another world in there, bright with sun, and a breeze rioting through, setting in motion all the charming disorder there—ribbons and silks and tissue paper in half open boxes, gay and frivolous things hanging over the backs of chairs. It was a very untidy room, but Mrs. Holland knew it would never be like this again. After to-day it would be a neat, quiet, empty room.