“Some of your art pupils came to the gate just now, didn't they?” she inquired.
“Yes,” the girl answered. “Sally and Mary Hill wanted to know if I'd go sketching with them to the swamp to-morrow afternoon.”
“And are you going?”
“I told them I'd let them know in the morning.” Dora was at her place at the side of the table, and she felt her mother's despondent gaze turned on her.
“You told them you'd let them know! Why, don't you know already? I thought you liked to go out that way. Some of your best studies were made at the swamp.”
“I was feeling so badly,” the girl sighed, “that I didn't have the heart to promise. I can never work to any advantage if I am not in the mood for it.”
“Oh! that is it!” They both sat down. “You ought to fight against languor at this time of the year. I never let an ache or pain keep me from work. Sometimes merely being busy seems to help one. Your father used to stick at his easel as long as the light would hold out. He used to say the time would come when the whole world would admire your painting, and you really are improving.”
Dora sighed, but said nothing.
Mrs. Barry passed her a cup of coffee. “Here, drink this down while it is hot,” she advised. “I made it strong. It will do you good.”
“Thank you, mother, you are very kind to me.” Dora drank some of the coffee, and daintily munched a piece of buttered toast. In the afternoon light, which fell through a western window, Mrs. Barry saw a deeply troubled look on the wan face—a certain nervous twitching of the tapering fingers.