Kitty glanced around the room, which seemed to her so bare. It was spotlessly clean, and Tom’s chair was soft and comfortable—as indeed a chair ought to be which must be sat in from morning till night. Opposite to it were a few pictures on the wall,—engravings taken from books and magazines, and given, probably, to Mrs. Graham by some of her lady customers. Within easy reach was a little stand, on which stood a rose-bush in a pot, and a basket full of bright-colored worsteds, while a book or two lay beside them.
“And do you never go out?” cried Kitty, forgetting her errand in her sympathy—forgetting, too, that Luke and his impatient horse were waiting below.
“Not lately. Mother used to take me down into the street sometimes; but I’ve grown too heavy for her now, and she can’t. But I’m not very dull, even when she’s gone. You wouldn’t guess how many things I see from my window; and then I make worsted mats and tidies, and mother sells them; and then I sing.”
Kitty stepped to the window to see what range of vision it offered, and her eye fell on Luke. She recalled her business.
“I came to see if I could get your mother to sew two or three days for me this week.”
Tom was alert and business-like at once.
“Let me see,” she said, “to-day is Tuesday;” and she drew toward her a little book, and looked it over. “To-morrow is engaged, but you could have Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, if you want so much. Please write your name against them.”
Kitty pulled off her pretty gray glove, and wrote her name and address with the little toy-pencil at the end of her chatelaine; and then she turned to go, but it was Tom’s turn to question.
“Please,” said the sweet, fresh voice, which seemed so like the clear carol of a bird, “would you mind telling me how old you are? I’m sixteen myself.”
“And so am I sixteen,” said Kitty.