Within this new-found home—a nest consisting of two rooms—everything was scrupulously neat; but except for a small gilt chair that caught the rays of the sunlight, and that seemed fully as incongruous to its surroundings as was the woman herself, there was nothing in its furnishings to remind one of former prosperity. In a far corner of the adjoining room was a stove on which a frugal meal was cooking, sending its odour throughout the small apartment—a meal that in former days she would not have thought possible even for her servants. At the window of this room,—which was bedroom and living-room combined,—upon a small table was a typewriter, before which sat Miriam Challoner, clad in a sombre dress that was almost nun-like in its severity. She was pale, and on her face was the look of a woman acquainted with grief.
She read as she wrote:—
"Now this indenture witnesseth,—comma,—that the said party of the first part,—comma,—for the better securing the payment of the said sum of money mentioned in the condition of the said bond or obligation,—comma,—with interest thereon,—comma,—according to the true intent and meaning thereof,—semicolon,—and also for and in consideration of the sum of one dollar,—comma,—to him in hand well and duly paid——"
Suddenly she halted and fingered the copy lying on the table at her right.
"Twenty more pages—I can't do them now ..." she muttered half-aloud, and crossing the room unsteadily, threw herself upon the bed—a cheap bed that groaned and creaked as if it felt her weight upon it.
"... tired—I'm so tired," she moaned, as she lay there supinely for some time. All of a sudden, she sat bolt upright in bed, for the sound of a timid knock on the door had reached her ears; but thinking, perhaps, that she had been dreaming, she waited until the knock was repeated, and only then did she cry out:—
"Well? What is it?"
There was no answer. A moment more, and she was at the door confronting a man and a woman, both gaily caparisoned. They stood hand in hand, sheepishly, smilingly, the woman looking more like some guilty child, who was being brought to task by an over-indulgent parent. For a brief second, that seemed interminably long to Mrs. Challoner waiting for them to speak, they stood thus; and it was not until they called her name that she recognised them.
"Mrs. Challoner—we thought—" they stammered in chorus.
"Why, it's Stevens," Mrs. Challoner broke in, at last, "and you too, Foster!" and the colour instantly went flying from her lips to her cheeks.