“Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?” inquired Hepsey, eagerly. “I reckon I can get you one—Maltese or white, just as you like.”
“No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets.”
“Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, though, with no cat; and Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more.”
Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that made substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a time in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby haircloth furniture was ornamented with “tidies” to the last degree. There was a marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The Lady's Garland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it.
A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relative of their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with gilt, flanked the mantel-shelf. The carpet, which was once of the speaking variety, had faded to the listening point. Coarse lace curtains hung from brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins were festooned at the top.
Hepsey came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the table, but Miss Thorne rose, saying: “You needn't mind, Hepsey, as I am going upstairs.”
“Want me to help you unpack?” she asked, doubtless wishing for a view of “city clothes.”
“No, thank you.”
“I put a pitcher of water in your room, Miss Thorne. Is there anything else you would like?”
“Nothing more, thank you.”