She sat at the head of the table, the little basket of her own and her mother's keys beside her.

Her dress was a soft black brocade, with lace collar and cuff, which had once belonged to an aunt of her mother's.

It was too old for her both in fashion and material, but it gave her a gentle, almost matronly dignity, which became her.

Her long thin hands, full of character and delicacy, moved nimbly among the cups; all her ways were quiet and yet decided.

It was evident that among this little party she, and not the plaintive mother, was really in authority.