Where love
is, even a dull London street has its sunshine.
Acacia Road was reached at last, and the cab drew up before a small
bow-windowed house that had a card, "Apartments to Let," over the hall
door. A little servant with a dirty apron and a merry face opened the
door, and two boys with bright red pinafores came rushing from the
sitting-room behind her.
Miss Sampson wasn't in, but her aunt, Mrs. M'Alister, was, the smiling
servant-maid told Miss Merivale, and led the way into the front
sitting-room. The boys ran upstairs. Miss Merivale heard them shouting to
their mother that a lady wanted her, and she sat down on a chair near the
door, trembling all over.
The room was the ordinary lodging-house sitting-room; but though there was
a litter of toys on the worn carpet, it had evidently been carefully swept
and dusted that morning, and there was a brown jug filled with fresh
daffodils on the centre table. On the side table near Miss Merivale there
was a pile of books. She looked at the titles as she waited for a step on
the stairs--_The Civil Service Geography, Hamblin Smith's Arithmetic_, one
or two French Readers, a novel by George MacDonald, and a worn edition of
Longfellow's Poems. Miss Merivale wondered if they all belonged to Rhoda.
She was not kept waiting very long. Almost before she had finished looking
at the books she heard someone coming down the stairs, and the door opened
to admit a tall, angular woman, whose brown hair was thickly streaked with
grey.
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