a
small one--originally Bob's--had been set up, at the head of which lay
one large pillow fairly glistening with the shine of its fresh,
although darned, linen sheath. Carpet and curtains, essential to the
departed housefather, had disappeared; the bare windows stood open to
what fresh air there was; the floor, polished, and with one rug at the
bedside, exhaled the sweet perfume of beeswax and turpentine. It was
all so pathetic to the visitor, so eloquent of loss and change, that
she exclaimed, catching her sister in her arms:

"Oh, you poor thing! You poor, poor thing!"

Mrs Goldsworthy returned the embrace tenderly, but not the emotional
impulse.

"You are so dear and kind," she said, in a gentle, but quite steady
voice. "I am so glad you came--so thankful to have you; but we won't
talk about that, if you don't mind. I think it is best not to dwell on
troubles, if you can help it. Tell me about yourself. I suppose you
have had lunch? Well, then, we will have a nice cup of tea. Take off
that heavy cloak--what lovely fur! And your hat too--what a smart
affair! You always have such taste. No, I am not wearing crape; it is
such rough, uncomfortable stuff, and so perishable; and the rule is not
hard and fast nowadays, as it used to be. It would be stupid to make it
so in a climate like this. Do you want a comb, dear? How brown your
hair keeps still! Then let us go downstairs to the fire."

The fire was in a little bare parlour, as austerely appointed as the
bedroom. A tea-table was drawn up to the hearth, the kettle placed on
the coals. There seemed no servant on the premises, but the neatness
upstairs was repeated below; everything was speckless, polished,
smelling of its own purity. Well, it was a good thing poor Molly could
interest herself in these matters, and her resolve not to brood over
her troubles--if it was genuine, and not only a heroic pose--both noble
and wise. So Deb reflected; and such was the calmness of the emotional
atmosphere, the cheering effect of tea and rest and sisterly
companionship, the discursiveness of the talk, that she soon found
herself telling Mary the secret that she was so sure the widow would
hear with special sympathy and understanding.

"It is awfully selfish," she began, "to bother you with my affairs at
such a time as this, but you've got to know it some time. The fact
is--some folks would say there's no fool like an old fool, and perhaps
you'll agree with them; but no, I don'