Somehow, the evidences of poverty on every side chilled her blood. The sitting-room was worse, even, than the hall. A big, empty room with a small fireplace in one corner, wherein a few coals were turning gray; a threadbare carpet, a couple of chairs, a little table with the Bible on it, ragged wall-paper, and a shelf in one corner filled with liniment bottles.
Mrs. Willis sat down in one of the rickety chairs, and Patience, after stirring up the coals, drew the other to the hearth.
“I’m afraid the room feels kind o’ coolish,” she said. “I’ve got the last o’ the coal on.”
“D’you mean,” said Mrs. Willis—and again her voice surprised her—“that you’re all out o’ coal?”
“All out.” She drew the tiny shawl closer to her throat with trembling, bony fingers. “But Mis’ Abernathy said she’d send me a scuttleful over to-day. I hate to take it from her, too; her husband’s lost his position and they ain’t overly well off. But sence my rheumatiz has been so bad I can’t earn a thing.”
Mrs. Willis stared hard at the coals. For the life of her she could think of nothing but her own basement filled to the ceiling with coal.
“I reckon,” said Patience, “you’ve come to hear my confessing-up?”
“Why—yes.” Mrs. Willis started guiltily.
“What’s the charges agen me, Mis’ Willis?”
Mrs. Willis’s eyelids fell heavily.