The young man sulking in a corner of the room came forward, and, running his eyes over the various articles of furniture, all veterans in the service of the ministry, chose for her a green-covered chair of an eccentric shape, known to the initiated as being fashioned from two barrels and stuffed with rags.
She shook her curls, and, waving him toward it, perched herself on a stool at a little distance. "Make haste, and take your gruel. It's nice and hot now, though I had a great time to get the fire to burn up. Rebecca is so forgetful,—she always neglects to put fresh coal on before she goes to bed."
"I don't want it," he muttered. "I'm not an invalid, and I hate sloppy things."
"No, you're not an invalid, thank God, such as my dear husband became, but still you must keep your strength up. I don't know that gruel is the best thing," and she doubtfully scanned his herculean proportions. "You look as if a joint of meat would suit you better. There's some cold hash in the pantry; would you like it?"
"No, no," he said, hurriedly seating himself, and dipping a large silver spoon into the gruel. "Don't trouble yourself. I'll eat this."
"It doesn't worry me when you quarrel with your food," she said, in her sprightly way. "You just do it if you want to; I know you've been used to better things."
"This is good enough for me," he said, taking the gruel with the utmost rapidity in order to get quickly through with it.
"I often think how good you are," she went on, in a sweet, motherly tone, "you are the best of my children."
"No, no," he ejaculated, suddenly putting the bowl from him and flinging himself out of his chair, "not the best."
The little woman gazed mildly into the corner where he had again taken refuge. She could not see him plainly. The lazy fire, that she had stirred, had again fallen into sluggishness and slyness. She seized a match from the mantel and lighted the gas in order that she might the better survey the cultured yet almost brutal beauty of visage that had so strange an influence over all her sex.