It was a spacious, rather dreary looking apartment, very plainly furnished and almost wholly destitute of ornament, with the exception of a few old family portraits. The only really attractive objects in the room were a brightly blazing fire and a very fine painting over the mantel.
This last riveted Mildred's attention in a moment, and she exclaimed at its beauty.
"Yes," whispered Mrs. Dinsmore, "it's the one handsome thing in the house, and she's always at her husband to sell it."
"Why?" and Mildred's look expressed unfeigned astonishment.
"Praise it to her and you will hear all about it."
Their hostess entered. She was tall, angular, of sallow complexion, and strong featured. Her black hair, streaked here and there with grey, was drawn straight back from a forehead crossed by many lines.
Caps were much worn even by youthful matrons at that day, but Mrs. Landreth had resorted to no such artifice to conceal from view the partially bald spot on the top of her head; neither did the close fitting, black stuff gown hide one angle of her stiff, ungainly figure.
Her movements were ungraceful, her countenance was solemn as might have befitted a funeral occasion.
"She is certainly far from pleasing in appearance," thought Mildred, furtively scanning the unattractive face, and mentally contrasting it with the dear, bright, cheerful one that had made the sunshine of her childhood's home.
Mrs. Landreth's face served as a good foil even to Mrs. Dinsmore's faded beauty; a fact of which that lady was by no means unaware or intolerant.