She was a young woman, but not a very young woman. Her figure was slim, and she looked better in loose waists than in tightly fitted gowns. She wore a dark green gown with a black jacket, and a scarlet shirt-waist underneath. Her face was long, with square chin and high cheek-bones, and thin, firm lips; yet she was comely, because of her lustrous black hair, her clear, gray eyes, and her charming, fair skin. She had another gift: everything about her was daintily neat; at first glance one said, “Here is a person who has spent pains, if not money, on her toilet.”
By this time Tilly was entering the Lossing Building. Half-way up the stairway a hand plucked her skirts. The hand belonged to a tired-faced woman in black, on whose breast glittered a little crowd of pins and threaded needles, like the insignia of an Order of Toil.
“Please excuse me, Miss Tilly,” said the woman, at the same time presenting a flat package in brown paper, “but WILL you give this pattern back to your mother. I am so very much obliged. I don't know how I WOULD git along without your mother, Tilly.”
“I'll give the pattern to her,” said Tilly, and she pursued her way.
Not very far. A stout woman and a thin young man, with long, wavy, red hair, awaited her on the landing. The woman held a plate of cake which she thrust at Tilly the instant they were on the same level, saying: “The cake was just splendid, tell your mother; it's a lovely recipe, and will you tell her to take this, and see how well I succeeded?”
“And—ah—Miss Louder,” said the man, as the stout woman rustled away, “here are some Banner of Lights; I think she'd be interested in some of the articles on the true principles of the inspirational faith——” Tilly placed the bundle of newspapers at the base of her load—“and—and, I wish you'd tell your dear mother that, under the angels, her mustard plaster really saved my life.”
“I'll tell her,” said Tilly.
She had advanced a little space before a young girl in a bright blue silk gown flung a radiant presence between her and the door. “Oh, Miss Tilly,” she murmured, blushing, “will you just give your mother this?—it's—it's Jim's photograph. You tell her it's ALL right; and SHE was exactly right, and I was wrong. She'll understand.”
Tilly, with a look of resignation, accepted a stiff package done up in white tissue paper. She had now only three steps to take: she took two, only two, for—“Miss Tilly, PLEASE!” a voice pealed around the corner, while a flushed and breathless young woman, with a large baby toppling over her lean shoulder, staggered into view. “My!” she panted, “ain't it tiresome lugging a child! I missed the car, of course, coming home from ma's. Oh, say, Tilly, your mother was so good, she said she'd tend Blossom next time I went to the doctor's, and——”
“I'll take the baby,” said Tilly. She hoisted the infant on to her own shoulder with her right arm. “Perhaps you'll be so kind's to turn the handle of the door,” said she in a slightly caustic tone, “as I haven't got any hands left. Please shut it, too.”