hard-hearted. It would have been an unalloyed joy to her.
Following this energetic and belligerent lady came her antithesis, delicate, attractive, refined little Mrs. Porter—a deserted young wife with two babies to care for. Her manners were those of the parlor rather than the laundry, her methods above suspicion, her hours and conduct unimpeachable. She couldn't keep the clothes up to her predecessor's standard; it needed a fighting strain foreign to her nature to do that, but she gave of her best. Tears trembled on the curving lashes as she revealed bits of her unhappy story, or referred to the children. The boy was clever with his fingers, already drawing pictures of everything he saw. And the baby! She couldn't get that into words at all. She left them in the solitary rented room—locking the door in the mornings when she came away. They would both be asleep, what else could she do? The breakfast and dinner?—Oh, she left some cold porridge and milk for them—the boy could lift it down, and some bread and butter for their lunch. The lady below stairs had the key and would go and see to them if they made too much noise. The worst was
