"An hour went by, but Selina did not make her appearance. The first half-hour passed quickly because my mother was busy thinking out the exact phrases in which to touch her higher nature. It required tact—a single clumsy turn of language—and she might offend Selina instead of elevating her. It was really quite a literary effort, the adequate expression of my mother's conception of the dignity and pathos of the situation, in fact it was that most difficult branch of literature, the dramatic, for my mother constructed the entire dialogue, speaking for Selina as well as for herself. Like all leading ladies, especially when they write their own plays, my mother allotted herself the 'tag,' and the last words of the dialogue were:—
"'There! there! my good girl! Dry your eyes. The past shall be forgotten. From to-morrow a new life shall begin. Come, Selina! drink that nice hot cup of tea—don't cry and let it get cold. That's right.
"The second half-hour was rather slower, my mother listening eagerly for Selina's footsteps, and pricking up her ears at every sound. The mice ran about the wainscoting, the kettle sang blithely, the little flames leaped in the grate, the kitchen and the breakfast-room were cheerful and cosy and redolent of the goodly savors of breakfast. A pile of hot toast lay upon a plate. Only Selina was wanting.
"All at once my mother heard the hall-door bang, and running to the window she saw a figure going out into the gray freezing fog. It was my father hurrying to catch his train. In the excitement of the experiment my mother had forgotten to tell him that for this morning at least, breakfast could be had at home. He might have had such beautiful tea and coffee, such lovely toast, such exquisite eggs, and there he was hastening along in the raw air on an empty stomach. My mother rapped on the panes with her knuckles but my father was late and did not hear. Her own soul a little ruffled, my mother sat down again in the kitchen and waited for Selina. Gradually she forgot her chagrin, after all it was the last time my father would ever have to depart breakfastless. She went over the dialogue again, polishing it up and adding little touches.
"I think it was past nine when Selina left her bedroom, unwashed and rubbing her eyes. By that time my mother had thrice resisted the temptation to go up and shake her, and it was coming on a fourth time when she heard Selina's massive footstep on the stair. Instantly my mother's irritation ceased. She reassumed her look of sublime martyrdom. She had spread a nice white cloth on the kitchen table and Selina's breakfast stood appetizingly upon it. Tears came into her eyes as she thought of how Selina would be shaken to her depths by the sight.
"Selina threw open the kitchen door with a peevish push, for she disliked having to get up early in these cold, dark winter mornings and vented her irritation even upon insensitive woodwork. But when she saw the deep red glow of the fire, instead of the dusky chillness of the normal morning kitchen, she uttered a cry of joy, and rushing forwards warmed her hands eagerly at the flame.
"'Oh, thank you, missus,' she said with genuine gratitude.
"Selina did not seem at all surprised. But my mother did. She became confused and nervous. She forgot her words, as if from an attack of stage-fright. There was no prompter and so for a moment my mother remained speechless.
"Selina, having warmed her hands sufficiently, drew her chair to the table and lifted the cosy from the tea-pot.
"'Why, you've let it get cold,' she said reproachfully, feeling the side of the pot.