It was a beautiful petticoat of scarlet cloth; soft and thick. Rotha looked at the pile of things lying on her lap, and was absolutely dumb. Mrs. Mowbray bent forward and kissed her cheek.
"I think you will be well enough to go out by Saturday—and I will let Miss Jewett go with you to a dress-maker and have these things made up at once. Is there any particular dress-maker who is accustomed to work for you?"
"No," Rotha said first, and then immediately added—"Yes! I forgot; the one who made my summer dresses, that I had in the summer." That Mr. Southwode got for me, she had been about to say; but she checked herself. Some fine instinct made her perceive that the mention of that gentleman's name was not received with absolute favour. She thought Mrs. Mowbray did not approve of Mr. Southwode.
"And now, my dear," said that lady, as she swept away the packages of goods from Rotha's lap, "what about your question of conscience?"
"It remains a question, ma'am."
"Not settled yet? What makes the difficulty?"
"I told you, ma'am. I did not speak quite as I ought to my aunt, one or two times, and so—she has something against me; and I cannot pray."
"Cannot pray, my dear! that is dreadful. I should die if I could not pray. The Bible says, pray always."
"But it says, here, 'if thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"
"Let me see that place," said Mrs. Mowbray. She sat down beside Rotha and took the little Testament out of her hand, and considered the passage.