Miss Scrimp looked at it very closely. Had there been no seal, only gum as a closing medium, it is possible her examination might have been closer.
Biddy Lanigan, once when she quarreled with her mistress and employer, boldly twitted her with having “stamed” letters over her “tay-kettle” and then opened them.
“This is a man’s handwrite!” muttered Miss Scrimp. “I don’t like my boarders having men to write to ’em. But this one is away off in Californy—like as not, rich as all creation. I wish I knew who he is and what he wants. I’ll hand her the letter afore all the boarders at supper to-night, and if she opens it, I’ll watch her face, and maybe I can guess from that what’s up. She’ll never tell no other way. She has just the closest little mouth I ever did see. But come to think, she mightn’t open it at the table. She wouldn’t be apt to, for all the girls would be curious to know if it was a love-letter, and plague her, maybe. And she is too good a girl to be plagued. I’ll keep it till after she has had supper and gone to her room, and then I’ll go up, friendly-like and take a chair—if there’s two in her room, which I’m not sure of—hand her the letter, and wait till she opens it. And I’ll ask her if her brother in Californy is well—make as if some one had told me she had a brother there.”
This plan, talked over to herself, satisfied Miss Scrimp, and she put the letter in one of her capacious pockets, there to remain till evening.
CHAPTER II.
MISS SCRIMP’S DISAPPOINTMENT.
The cracked bell, which had done service all those long years in the establishment of Miss Scrimp, had rung its discordant call for supper. The hour was late, for many of her boarders worked till dark, and had some distance to walk to reach home, and the dining-room was dimly lighted by two hanging lamps, one over each end of the table. They served, however, to show the scattered array of thin sliced bread, still thinner slices of cold meat, and the small plates of very pale butter laid along at distant intervals. Also to show dimly a few rosy faces, but many worn and pale ones—almost all having, like Cassius, “a lean and hungry look.”
The rosy faces were new-comers, who had left good country homes to learn sad lessons in city life.
Little Jessie was hurrying to and fro, carrying the cups of hot beverage, which her mistress called tea, to the boarders, and answering the impatient cries of those not yet served as fast as she could.
Biddy Lanigan, who stood almost six feet high, was fleshy to boot, and had a face almost as red as the coals she worked over, stood with her arms akimbo at the door, which opened into the kitchen, ready for a bitter answer should any fault-finder’s voice reach her ear, and also prepared to refill the tea-urn with hot water when it ran low, on the principle that a second cup of tea should never be as strong as the first.
There was a murmur of many voices at first, but the clatter of knives and forks, and cups and saucers soon drowned all this, and until the dishes were literally emptied, little other noise could be heard.