"She writes to me, I say, and tells me of her situation—widowed, childless, homeless and utterly destitute in a strange city; but she asks nothing—suggests nothing."
"Well, and what would you do—you, her only living relative?" inquired the ancient dame in a tone approaching sarcasm.
["I] would restore to her all that she has lost, if I could. I would give her back husband, daughter, home and competence," said Emma.
"But you can't do it any more than you can give her back her lost caste," interrupted the old lady.
Emma felt discouraged but did not yield her point.
"No, dear grandma," she answered, sorrowfully, "I can not give her back her husband, her child, or her wealth; but I can give my mother's suffering sister a home and a friend."
Madam Cavendish lowered her gold-rimmed spectacles from her cap frills to her eyes, placed her lace-mittened hands on the arms of her chair and looked straight and steadily into the face of her granddaughter.
It was extremely disheartening, and Emma dropped her eyes before that severe gaze and bowed her head meekly.
But Emma, though she was the young girl, was in the right; and Madam Cavendish, though she was an ancient and venerable dame, was in the wrong.
Emma knew this quite well, and in the argument that ensued she lovingly, respectfully, yet unflinchingly, maintained her point.