Her daughter, who was with her, was suffering agonies of mortification. She was a pale, consumptive-looking girl with big feet, a scant dress, and a white veil reaching only to her nose. This veil she kept twitching nervously as she plucked at her mother's shawl and begged her to come on.
The old mother, whose poke-bonnet was pushed far back from her crop of bushy white hair, would not give up the pleasing excitement of making a scene. Her cheeks grew redder and redder while she chaffered with the hackmen. For how much would they take her out of town to see a friend?
Who was her friend, they asked, and how far was it?
This the old woman would not commit herself to revealing. She was not going to walk in any trap with her eyes open, and, catching sight of the chief, and impressed by his air of authority, she appealed to him.
He good-humouredly asked her where she wished to go.
To pay the interest on her mortgage, and she shook her bag.
"But where, to whom?"
"To the rich old lady, the French one."
"Miss Gastonguay,—yes, she has mortgages in plenty, but you want to see her lawyer."
The old woman said she would see no lawyer. Her business was with Miss Gastonguay.