There was a sort of scuffling noise inside, and a few moments passed before it was opened.
The sisters-in-law looked at each other in amazement. Rosy Emma Rowles, in her blue gown and straw bonnet with red roses, with her stout alpaca umbrella and her strong basket packed tight with vegetables, was an unaccustomed vision at No. 103; while the pale, thin, ragged, miserable Mary Mitchell was an appalling representative of her former self.
"Mary!"
"Is it you, Emma Rowles? However did you get here?"
"I came by the train from Littlebourne," said Mrs. Rowles simply. "May I come in?"
"Oh, you may come in if you care to," was the bitter reply.
Mrs. Rowles looked round her as she entered, and was so much shocked at what she saw that for a few moments she could not speak.
In the middle of the room was a square table, on which lay a mass of thick black silk and rich trimmings, which even Emma Rowles's country eyes could see were being put together to form a very handsome mantle suitable for some rich lady. A steel thimble, a pair of large scissors, a reel of cotton and another of silk lay beside the materials. In strong contrast to this beautiful and expensive stuff was the sight which saddened the further corner of the small room. Close under the sloping, blackened ceiling was a mattress laid on the floor, and on it a wan, haggard man, whom Mrs. Rowles supposed to be Thomas Mitchell, though she hardly recognized him. There was also another mattress on the floor. The blankets were few, but well-worn counterpanes covered the beds. A little washstand with broken crockery, a kettle, some jam-pots, and some medicine bottles were about all the rest of the furniture. All that she saw told Mrs. Rowles very plainly that her relations had fallen into deep poverty.
"Why, Tom," she began, "I'm afraid you are ill."
"Been ill these two months," he replied in a weak voice.