Miss Wilson arose to the occasion. With a characteristic toss of the head, she crossed the room and drew forward a chair. “Sit, all of you, and I’ll put the kettle to boil for cocoa. Father, tell your story about the boy illustrating ‘The Old Oaken Bucket.’” She lighted the alcohol lamp while she was talking. She made no apology for the disorder of the room. One might suppose from her manner that all was as the most fastidious might desire.
Elizabeth sat quietly in the background, hoping that no one would speak to her. Her face was burning. There was a dimness about her eyes suggestive of tears.
Missing her, Mrs. Wilson turned, about. “Where is Elizabeth?” she asked. “Did she not come with us?”
“Yes; I came,” said a voice choking with tears. “I’m here—and oh, I am so ashamed. Not one of those articles scattered about are Mary’s. They’re all mine.” At this she could no longer restrain herself, but began to cry.
Both Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Wilson would have consoled her with well chosen words of sympathy. The men laughed and declared that they were so accustomed to dropping their shoes in the middle of the floor that they had not recognized the signs of disorder; that they supposed that the floor was the legitimate place for shoes. But treating the matter lightly did not rid Elizabeth of her shame and embarrassment. She was unable to control herself. Slipping into the bedroom, she threw herself face downward on the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.
When she awakened, she found that the guests and Miss Wilson had departed. She prepared for bed and was standing in her night clothes when Mary came back into the room, a tearful little maiden. But Miss Wilson was unmoved.
“I’m so sorry and—ashamed,” began Elizabeth.
“You should be,” was the unfeeling response.
“It shall never happen so again,” contritely.
“I’m sure it will not, for after this I’ll see to it that the room is in order after you get through dressing.”