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Updated: May 24, 2025
That very day Maria's mother's room had been papered with a beautiful paper with a sheenlike satin, over which were strewn garlands of pink roses. Pink was Miss Slome's favorite color. They had a new hard-wood floor laid in that room, and there was to be a pink rug, and white furniture painted with pink roses; Maria knew that her father and Miss Slome had picked it out.
At times Aunt Maria could not quite forgive Evelyn for being Ida Slome's child, especially when she showed any weakness. She looked severely now at poor Evelyn, in her red house-wrapper, weeping in her damp little handkerchief. "I should think you were about ten," she said. Evelyn wiped her eyes and sniffed. Her throat was very sore, and her cold was also in her head.
She took her place, with her pretty smile as set as if she had been a picture instead of a living and breathing woman, on the platform. "You are awful sweet all of a sudden, ain't you?" said Gladys Mann in Maria's ear. Maria nodded, and went to her own seat. All that day she noted, with her sharp little consciousness, the change in Miss Slome's manner towards her. It was noticeable even in class.
She went home with Miss Slome when she was asked, but she was never gracious in response to the doll-like smile, and the caressing words, which were to her as automatic as the smile. Sometimes it seemed to Maria that if she could only have her own mother scold her, instead of Miss Slome's talking so sweetly to her, she would give the whole world.
There were not many people there, and all the windows were open, and there was something poetical and sweet about the atmosphere. Besides, the singing was unusually good for such a place. Above all the other voices arose Ida Slome's sweet soprano. She sang like a bird; her voice, although not powerful, was thrillingly sweet.
"Mother always said so." Miss Slome only laughed harder. "You funny little darling," she said. "And Wollaston has a real good disposition, his mother told my aunt Maria so," she persisted. The room fairly rang with Miss Slome's laughter, although she tried to subdue it. Maria persisted. "And father isn't a mite handy about the house," said she. "And Mrs.
For the first time he deliberated whether he was about to do a wise thing: for the first time, the image of Ida Slome's smiling beauty, which was ever evident to his fancy, produced in him something like doubt and consternation. He looked about the room, and remembered the old pieces of furniture which had that day been carried away. He looked at the places where they had stood.
She and her father were invited to take tea at Miss Slome's boarding-house, and after tea they sat in the little parlor which the teacher had for her own, and Miss Slome sang and played to them. She had a piano. Maria heard her and her father talking about the place in the Edgham parlor where it was to stand.
A bay-window was being built in the parlor, and one over it, in the room which had been her father's and mother's, and which Maria dimly realized was, in the future, to be Miss Ida Slome's. Maria's mother had always talked a good deal about some day having that bay-window.
"If father's little girl were large enough to keep his house for him, and were through school, father would never think of taking such a step," said Harry Edgham, and he honestly believed what he said. For the moment his old love of life seemed to clutch him fast, and Ida Slome's radiant visage seemed to pale. "Oh, father," pleaded Maria.
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