ith
some familiarity.

More than one reversed their judgment, and almost every one revised it.
Mrs. Middleton was sentimental--there was no gainsaying that; she was
rather gushing. Yet she was truly kind-hearted, generous to a fault,
thoughtful in many ways, with really keen intuition in certain
directions. As people came again and again, she guessed many a hidden
trouble or vexation, and her sympathy was warm and very grateful; while
now and again she had a flash of inspiration that was marvellously
helpful.

No one's revision of judgment was more sweeping, perhaps, than that of
Elsie Marley. Somehow her former shrinking had quite disappeared
during the long illness, and the change in Mrs. Middleton's appearance
helped bridge the way to a better understanding. The old wrappers and
tea-gowns had gone to the ragman. The new afternoon gowns Elsie had
selected were yet prettier than the morning ones and very becoming.
The out-of-door air had already almost made over her complexion: her
skin looked healthy, her color was good; and with the new fashion of
wearing her hair, she began to look attractive and almost pretty.

She had not curled her hair since her illness, and now it was soft and
smooth and seemed warmer in color. The nurse having parted it one day
when Mrs. Middleton was convalescent, and coiled it upon her head
simply, had declared it made her look like a Raphael madonna. The
allusion was far-fetched, but it touched Mrs. Middleton's sentimental
fancy, and she adopted that style of hair-dressing permanently.

In the morning, Elsie attended to her household duties and helped the
minister. She fell now into the habit of spending the early part of
the afternoon with Mrs. Middleton, going over to the library just
before four. Doctor Fenwick having suggested knitting as a soothing
indoor occupation, his patient sent for an immense quantity of
wool--enough to keep half a dozen pairs of hands busy all winter--and
began to make red-white-and-blue afghans for the Labrador Mission.
Whereupon Elsie proposed reading to her while she worked. Mrs.
Middleton was delighted, but when Elsie got "Adam Bede" from the
shelves, she confessed that it tired her head. "Henry Esmond" was
likewise too heavy, and Elsie groaned inwardly, expecting to be asked
to read some of the paper-covered novels she was addicted to. She said
to herself she simply couldn't: she had never in her life read any such
trash and she would have