The big house was tranquil.  The afternoon sun, which had got round to the kitchen window, blazed in there through a fringe of icicles that hung from the low eaves of the kitchen roof, and sent a long strip of bright prismatic rays across the floor and through the door on to the rag carpet under the dining-room table.  Ever and anon, as the ladies sewed, the sound of sleigh-bells came to them, distant, then nearer, then near, with the trotting of horses’ feet as they passed the house, then again more distant.  The dining-room window faced the road, but one could not see through it without standing upright.

“Mamma,” said Sophia, “it is quite clear we can never make an ordinary servant out of Eliza; but if we try to be companionable to her we may help her to learn what she needs to learn, and make her more willing to stay with us.”

It was Mrs. Rexford’s way never to approach a subject gradually in speech.  If her mind went through the process ordinarily manifested in introductory remarks it slipped through it swiftly and silently, and her speech darted into the heart of the subject, or skipped about and hit it on all sides at once.

“Ah, but I told her again and again, Sophia, to say ‘miss’ to the girls.  She either didn’t hear, or she forgot, or she wouldn’t understand.  I think you’re the only one she’ll say ‘miss’ to.  But we couldn’t do without her.  Mrs. Nash was telling me the other day that her girl had left in the middle of the washing, and the one they had before that for a year—­a little French Romanist—­stole all their handkerchiefs, and did not give them back till she made confession to her priest at Easter.  It was very awkward, Sophia, to be without handkerchiefs all winter.”  The crescendo emphasis which Mrs. Rexford had put into her remarks found its fortissimo here.  Then she added more mildly, “Though I got no character with Eliza I am convinced she will never pilfer.”

Mrs. Rexford was putting her needle out and in with almost electric speed.  Her mind was never quiet, but there was a healthy cheerfulness in her little quick movements that removed them from the region of weak nervousness.  Yet Sophia knit her brow, and it was with an effort that she continued amicably: 

“Certainly we should be more uncomfortable without her just now than she would be without us; but if she left us there’s no saying where her ambition might lead her.”

Mrs. Rexford bethought her that she must look at some apples that were baking in the kitchen oven, which she did, and was back in time to make a remark in exchange without causing any noticeable break in the conversation.  She always gave remarks in exchange, seldom in reply.

“Scotchmen are faithful to their kinsfolk usually, aren’t they, Sophia?”

“You think that the uncle she wrote to will answer.  He may be dead, or may have moved away; the chances are ten to one that he will not get the letter.  I think the girl is in our hands.  We have come into a responsibility that we can’t make light of.”