Maria's mother was, however, in the house, seated beside the sitting-room table, on which stood a kerosene lamp with a singularly ugly shade. She was darning stockings. She held the stocking in her left hand, and drew the thread through regularly. Her mouth was tightly closed, which was indicative both of decision of character and pain. Her countenance looked sallower than ever. She looked up at her husband and little girl entering. "Well," she said, "so you've got home." "I've brought you some peaches, Abby," said Harry Edgham. He laid the bag on the table, and looked anxiously at his wife. "How do you feel now?" said he. "I feel well enough," said she. Her reply sounded ill-humored, but she did not intend it to be so. She was far from being ill-humored. She was thinking of her husband's kindness in bringing the peaches. But she looked at the paper bag on the table sharply. "If there is a soft peach in that bag," said she, "and there's likely to be, it will stain the table-cover, and I can never get it out." Harry hastily removed the paper bag from the table, which was covered with a white linen spread trimmed with lace and embroidered. "Don't you feel as if you could eat one to-night? You didn't eat much supper, and I thought maybe--" "I don't believe I can to-night, but I shall like them to-morrow," replied Mrs. Edgham, in a voice soft with apology. Then she looked fairly for the first time at Maria, who had purposely remained behind her father, and her voice immediately hardened. "Maria, come here," said she. Maria obeyed. She left the shelter of her father's broad back, and stood before her mother, in her pink gingham dress, a miserable little penitent, whose penitence was not of a high order. The sweetness of looking pretty was still in her soul, although Wollaston Lee had not gone home with her. Maria's mother regarded her with a curious expression compounded of pride and almost fierce disapproval. Harry went precipitately out of the room with the paper bag of peaches. "You didn't wear that new pink gingham dress that I had to hire made, trimmed with all that lace and ribbon, to meeting to-night?" said Maria's mother. Maria said nothing. It seemed to her that such an obvious fact scarcely needed words of assent. "Damp as it is, too," said her mother. Mrs. Edgham extended a lean, sallow hand and felt of the dainty fabric. "It is just as limp as a rag," said she, "about spoiled." "I held it up," said Maria then, with feeble extenuation. "Held it up!" repeated her mother, with scorn. "I thought maybe you wouldn't care." "Wouldn't care! That was the reason why you went out the other door then. I wondered why you did. Putting on that new pink gingham dress that I had to hire made, trimmed with all that lace and ribbon, and wearing it out in the evening, damp as it is to-night! I don't see what you were thinking of, Maria Edgham."