"Yes—two. I'll tell you about them afterward. Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes."
So the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively. Her face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and her dark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. Her black hair, slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled forehead. Her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work.
She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife—the woman he had so devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived with them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful womanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose North had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, a long illness had made him forget a great deal.
"Never mind, Barbara," said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the table. "It will make your hands too rough for the sewing."
"Shan't I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty? I'd just as soon."
"No—go with him."
The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the light and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's hands sought hers.
"More sewing?" His voice was tender and appealing.
"Just a little bit, Father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done."