“It was a most generous act,” said Mrs Lane, in a low, pained voice, “and will bear its fruit. But you will sit down?”
Mrs Jenkles seated herself on the very edge of her chair, bolt upright, while Mrs Lane drew out a well-worn purse, took from it half a sovereign, and laid it upon the table.
“I am ashamed to offer you so little of it back,” said Mrs Lane, “but it was all we could get together in so short a time. You shall have the rest—as we can make it up.”
“Thanky,” said Mrs Jenkles, shortly; but without attempting to touch the coin.
There was a pause then, only broken by that weary sound of hard stitching, which tells of sore fingers and aching eyes.
“How much more have you got in that purse?” said Mrs Jenkles, shortly.
A faint flush of resentment appeared in the mothers face, and the daughter darted an angry look at the speaker. But it died out in an instant, as with a sad, weary action, Mrs Lane reopened the purse, and shook out two more coins beside the half-sovereign upon the table.
“Two shillings,” she said, faintly; “it is all.”
Mrs Jenkles sat very still, and the stitching went on like the ticking of two clocks, measuring out the short span of the workers’ lives.
Mrs Jenkles’s eyes were busy, and she saw, as they went over the room, how shabbily it was furnished, how thinly mother and daughter were clothed, how pale and weary was their aspect, while the girl’s eyes were unnaturally bright.