“And—­ah—­Miss Louder,” said the man, as the stout woman rustled away, “here are some Banner of Lights; I think she’d be interested in some of the articles on the true principles of the inspirational faith ——­” Tilly placed the bundle of newspapers at the base of her load—­“and—­and, I wish you’d tell your dear mother that, under the angels, her mustard plaster really saved my life.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Tilly.

She had advanced a little space before a young girl in a bright blue silk gown flung a radiant presence between her and the door.  “Oh, Miss Tilly,” she murmured, blushing, “will you just give your mother this?—­it’s—­it’s Jim’s photograph.  You tell her it’s all right; and she was exactly right, and I was wrong.  She’ll understand.”

Tilly, with a look of resignation, accepted a stiff package done up in white tissue paper.  She had now only three steps to take:  she took two, only two, for—­“Miss Tilly, please!” a voice pealed around the corner, while a flushed and breathless young woman, with a large baby toppling over her lean shoulder, staggered into view.  “My!” she panted, “ain’t it tiresome lugging a child!  I missed the car, of course, coming home from ma’s.  Oh, say, Tilly, your mother was so good, she said she’d tend Blossom next time I went to the doctor’s, and ——­”

“I’ll take the baby,” said Tilly.  She hoisted the infant on to her own shoulder with her right arm.  “Perhaps you’ll be so kind’s to turn the handle of the door,” said she in a slightly caustic tone, “as I haven’t got any hands left.  Please shut it, too.”

As the young mother opened the door, Tilly entered the parlor.  For a second she stood and stared grimly about her.  The furniture of the room was old-fashioned but in the best repair.  There was a cabinet organ in one corner.  A crayon portrait of Tilly’s father (killed in the civil war) glared out of a florid gilt frame.  Perhaps it was the fault of the portrait, but he had a peevish frown.  There were two other portraits of him, large ghastly gray tintypes in oval frames of rosewood, obscurely suggesting coffins.  In these he looked distinctly sullen.  He was represented in uniform (being a lieutenant of volunteers), and the artist had conscientiously gilded his buttons until, as Mrs. Louder was wont to observe, “It most made you want to cut them off with the scissors.”  There were other tintypes and a flock of photographs in the room.  What Mrs. Louder named “a throw” decorated each framed picture and each chair.  The largest arm-chair was drawn up to a table covered with books and magazines:  in the chair sat Mrs. Louder, reading.

At Tilly’s entrance she started and turned her head, and then one could see that the tears were streaming down her cheeks.