Mrs.
Ayres kept no maid.

She had barely enough income to support herself and her daughter.

She came to the door herself.

She was a small, delicate, pretty woman, and her little thin hands were red with dish-water.
"Good-morning," she said, in a weary, gentle fashion.

"Come in, Mrs.
Whitman, won't you ?" As she spoke she wrinkled her forehead between her curves of gray hair.