Everything looked clean. Some work lay upon
the table, near which Ethel Ridley was sitting. But she had, turned
away from the table, and sat with one pale cheek resting on her open
hand. Her face wore a dreary, almost hopeless expression. On seeing
Mrs. Birtwell, she started up, the blood leaping in a crimson tide
to her neck, cheeks and temples, and stood in mute expectation.
"Miss Ridley?" said her visitor, in a kind voice.
Ethel only bowed. She could not speak in her sudden surprise. But
recovering herself in a few moments she offered Mrs. Birtwell a
chair.
"Mrs. Sandford spoke to me about you."
As Mrs. Birtwell said this she saw the flush die out of Ethel's face
and an expression of pain come over it. Guessing at what this meant,
she added, quickly:
"Mrs. Sandford and I do not think alike. You must keep your home, my
child."
Ethel gave a start and caught her breath. A look of glad surprise
broke into her face.
"Oh, ma'am," she answered, not able to steady her voice or keep the
tears out of her eyes, "if I can only do that! I am willing to work
if I can find anything to do. But--but--" She broke down, hiding her
face in her hands and sobbing.
Mrs. Birtwell was deeply touched. How could she help being so in
presence of the desolation and sorrow for which she felt herself and
husband to be largely responsible?
"It shall all be made plain and easy for you, my dear child," she
answered, taking Ethel's hand and kissing her with almost a mother's
tenderness.
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