One after another the several objects passed in review--the kettle singing on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a chair near the door to keep it out of the dust.

All told her of peace and warmth and comfort.
She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla, and half raised the lid, intending to place the contents on her sewing-table, but, catching sight of the kettle again, she let the box lid drop from her hands.

She was chilled from the ride in the car, the water was boiling, and it would take but a minute to make herself a cup of tea.

This would give her renewed strength for her task.

Hardly had she drained her cup when she became conscious of a step on the stairs--a steady, firm step.