On her easel was a canvas, where she had begun a sketch purporting to be apple-blossoms.
The studio was dark, for a mist of November rain blurred all the low gray sky.

The wide southwest window, which ran the length of the woodshed (this part of which was devoted to art), was streaming with water, and though the dotted muslin curtain was pushed as far back as it would go, very little light struggled into the room.

The dim engravings of nymphs and satyrs, in tarnished frames, which had been hung here to make room in the house for Miss Ruth's own productions, could scarcely be distinguished in the gloom, and though the artist wore her glasses she could not see to work.
So she had pushed back her easel, and began to make things tidy for Sunday.

Any sign of disorder would have greatly distressed Miss Ruth.
Even her paint-tubes were kept scrupulously bright and clean, and nothing was ever out of place.

Perhaps this made the room in the woodshed a little dreary, certainly it looked so now to Miss Deborah, standing in the doorway, and seeing the gaunt whitewashed walls, the bare rafters, and the sweeping rain against the window.
"Do, sister," she entreated, "come into the house, and let us arrange about the dinner." "No," said Miss Ruth, sighing, "I must wash these brushes." "Why not let Sarah do it ?" asked the other, stepping over a little stream of water which had forced itself under the threshold.
"Now, surely, sister," said Miss Ruth pettishly, "you know Sarah would get the color on the handles.