little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt,
Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The rooms were small
and dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and much worn; there
were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a few
pictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ. On
entering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, damp
atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness. The stairs were not
carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, however
light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above. There was no
sign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eye
penetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation.

Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered the
front parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where faint
daylight yet glimmered. The room was without fire. Over the mantelpiece
hung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite wall were the
Agony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old masters. The
centre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were the sole
articles of furniture. The table was spread with a white cloth; upon it
were a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two plates, and two
glasses.

Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quite
dark. Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the door
opened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stood
upon the table. She was tall, very slender, and with a face which a
painter might have used to personify the spiritual life. Its outlines
were of severe perfection; its expression a confirmed grief, subdued
by, and made subordinate to, the consciousness of an inward strength
which could convert suffering into triumph. Her garment was black, of
the simplest possible design. In looking at Maud, as the child rose
from the chair, it was scarcely affection that her eyes expressed,
rather a grave compassion. Maud took a seat at the table without
speaking; her aunt sat down over against her. In perfect silence they
partook of the milk and the bread. Miss Bygrave then cleared the table
with her own hands, and took the things out of the room. Maud still
kept her place. The child's manner was not at all constrained; she was
evidently behaving in her wonted way. Her eyes wandered about the room
with rather a dreamy gaze, and, as often as they fell upon her aunt's