"Oh,you have some rooms to let."
"Mother!"
"Well,what is it?"
"'Ere's a gentleman about the rooms."
"Ask 'im in.I'll be up in a minute."
"Will yer step inside,sir?Mother'll be up in a minute."So you step inside and after a minute "mother"comes slowly up the kitchen stairs,untying her apron as she comes and calling down instructions to some one below about the potatoes.
"Good-morning,sir,"says "mother,"with a washed-out smile."Will you step this way,please?""Oh,it's hardly worth while my coming up,"you say."What sort of rooms are they,and how much?""Well,"says the landlady,"if you'll step upstairs I'll show them to you."So with a protesting murmur,meant to imply that any waste of time complained of hereafter must not be laid to your charge,you follow "mother"upstairs.
At the first landing you run up against a pail and a broom,whereupon "mother"expatiates upon the unreliability of servant-girls,and bawls over the balusters for Sarah to come and take them away at once.When you get outside the rooms she pauses,with her hand upon the door,to explain to you that they are rather untidy just at present,as the last lodger left only yesterday;and she also adds that this is their cleaning-day--it always is.With this understanding you enter,and both stand solemnly feasting your eyes upon the scene before you.The rooms cannot be said to appear inviting.Even "mother's"face betrays no admiration.Untenanted "furnished apartments"viewed in the morning sunlight do not inspire cheery sensations.There is a lifeless air about them.It is a very different thing when you have settled down and are living in them.With your old familiar household gods to greet your gaze whenever you glance up,and all your little knick-knacks spread around you--with the photos of all the girls that you have loved and lost ranged upon the mantel-piece,and half a dozen disreputable-looking pipes scattered about in painfully prominent positions--with one carpet slipper peeping from beneath the coal-box and the other perched on the top of the piano--with the well-known pictures to hide the dingy walls,and these dear old friends,your books,higgledy-piggledy all over the place--with the bits of old blue china that your mother prized,and the screen she worked in those far by-gone days,when the sweet old face was laughing and young,and the white soft hair tumbled in gold-brown curls from under the coal-scuttle bonnet--Ah,old screen,what a gorgeous personage you must have been in your young days,when the tulips and roses and lilies (all growing from one stem)were fresh in their glistening sheen!Many a summer and winter have come and gone since then,my friend,and you have played with the dancing firelight until you have grown sad and gray.Your brilliant colors are fast fading now,and the envious moths have gnawed your silken threads.You are withering away like the dead hands that wove you.Do you ever think of those dead hands?You seem so grave and thoughtful sometimes that I almost think you do.Come,you and I and the deep-glowing embers,let us talk together.Tell me in your silent language what you remember of those young days,when you lay on my little mother's lap and her girlish fingers played with your rainbow tresses.Was there never a lad near sometimes--never a lad who would seize one of those little hands to smother it with kisses,and who would persist in holding it,thereby sadly interfering with the progress of your making?Was not your frail existence often put in jeopardy by this same clumsy,headstrong lad,who would toss you disrespectfully aside that he--not satisfied with one--might hold both hands and gaze up into the loved eyes?I can see that lad now through the haze of the flickering twilight.He is an eager bright-eyed boy,with pinching,dandy shoes and tight-fitting smalls,snowy shirt frill and stock,and--oh!such curly hair.A wild,light-hearted boy!Can he be the great,grave gentleman upon whose stick I used to ride crosslegged,the care-worn man into whose thoughtful face I used to gaze with childish reverence and whom I used to call "father?"You say "yes,"old screen;but are you quite sure?It is a serious charge you are bringing.Can it be possible?Did he have to kneel down in those wonderful smalls and pick you up and rearrange you before he was forgiven and his curly head smoothed by my mother's little hand?Ah!
