At last the day arrived for cousin Sally Gray’s visit.  Unfortunately the Venetian blinds were still at the blind-maker’s, where they were likely to remain for a week longer, as it was discovered, on the previous afternoon, that he had never touched them since they came into his shop.  Without them the little parlor had a terribly bare look; the strong light coming in, and contrasting harshly the new, gaudy carpet with the old, worn, and faded furniture.  Mrs. Cartwright fairly cried with vexation.

“We must have something for the windows, Henry,” she said, as she stood, disconsolate, in the parlor, after tea.  “It will never do in the world to let cousin Sally find us in this trim.”

“Cousin Sally will find a welcome in our hearts,” replied her husband, in a sober voice, “and that, I am sure, will be more grateful to her than new carpets and window blinds.”

The way in which this was spoken rather surprised Mrs. Cartwright, and she felt just a little rebuked.

“Don’t you think,” she said, after a few moments of silence on both sides, “that we might afford to buy a few yards of lace to put up to the windows, just for decency’s sake?”

“No,” answered the husband, firmly.  “We have afforded too much already.”

His manner seemed to Mrs. Cartwright almost ill-natured.  It hurt her very much.  Both sat down in the parlor, and both remained silent.  Mrs. Cartwright thought of the mean appearance everything in that “best room” would have in the eyes of cousin Sally, and Mr. Cartwright thought of his debt to his friend, and of that friend’s anger and alienation.  Both felt more uncomfortable than they had been for a long time.

On the next day cousin Sally arrived.  She had not come to spy out the nakedness of the land,—­not for the purpose of making contrasts between her own condition in life and that of Mr. Cartwright,—­but from pure love.  She had always been warmly attached to her cousin; and the years during which new life-associations had separated them had increased rather than diminished this attachment.  But the gladness of their meeting was soon overshadowed; at least for cousin Sally.  She saw by the end of the first day’s visit that her cousin was more concerned to make a good appearance in her eyes,—­to have her understand that she and her husband were getting along bravely in the world,—­than to open her heart to her as of old, and exchange with her a few pages in the history of their inner lives.  What interest had she in the new carpet, or the curtainless window, that seemed to be the most prominent of all things in the mind of her relative?  None whatever!  If the visit had been from Mary Cartwright to herself, she would never have thought for an instant of making preparations for her coming in the purchase of new furniture, or by any change in the externals of her home.  All arrangements for the reception would have been in her heart.