"And Kathie?" asked the woman, turning her head with the groping
uncertainty of the blind.
"Here, mother," answered a cheery voice. "I'm right here by the window."
"Oh!" And the woman smiled happily. "Painting, I suppose, as usual."
"Oh, I'm working, as usual," returned the same cheery voice, its owner
changing the position of the garment in her lap and reaching for a spool
of silk.
"There!" breathed the blind woman, as she sank into the great chair.
"Now I am all ready for my breakfast. Tell cook, please, Margaret, that
I will have tea this morning, and just a roll besides my orange." And
she smoothed the folds of her black silk gown and picked daintily at the
lace in her sleeves.
"Very well, dearie," returned her daughter. "You shall have it right
away," she added over her shoulder as she left the room.
In the tiny kitchen beyond the sitting-room Margaret Whitmore lighted
the gas-stove and set the water on to boil. Then she arranged a small
tray with a bit of worn damask and the only cup and saucer of delicate
china that the shelves contained. Some minutes later she went back to
her mother, tray in hand.
"'Most starved to death?" she demanded merrily, as she set the tray upon
the table Katherine had made ready before the blind woman.
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