Before starting she had given her driver the
name of the street and number of the house at which she was going to
make a call. The neighborhood was thickly settled, and the houses
small and poor. The one before which the carriage drew up did not
look quite so forlorn as its neighbors; and on glancing up at the
second-story windows, Mrs. Birtwell saw two or three flower-pots, in
one of which a bright rose was blooming.
"This is the place you gave me, ma'am," said the driver as he held
open the door. "Are you sure it is right?"
"I presume so;" and Mrs. Birtwell stepped out, and crossing the
pavement to the door, rang the bell. It was opened by a
pleasant-looking old woman, who, on being asked if a Miss Ridley
lived there, replied in the affirmative.
"You will find her in the front room up stairs, ma'am," she added.
"Will you walk up?"
The hall into which Mrs. Birtwell passed was narrow and had a rag
carpet on the floor. But the carpet was clean and the atmosphere
pure. Ascending the stairs, Mrs. Birtwell knocked at the door, and
was answered by a faint "Come in" from a woman's voice.
The room in which she found herself a moment afterward was almost
destitute of furniture. There was no carpet nor bureau nor
wash-stand, only a bare floor, a very plain bedstead and bed, a
square pine table and three chairs. There was not the smallest
ornament of any kind on the mantel-shelf but in the windows were
three pots of flowers.
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