get your tea, and then perhaps it’ll make me feel I could drink a cup. There, you’ve put your hair all out of order; let me smooth it. Don’t trouble to lay the cloth; just use the tray; it’s in the cupboard.”
Ida obeyed, and set about the preparations. Compare her face with that which rested sideways upon the pillows, and the resemblance was as strong as could exist between two people of such different ages: the same rich-brown hair, the same strongly-pencilled eye-brows; the deep-set and very dark eyes, the fine lips, the somewhat prominent jaw-bones, alike in both. The mother was twenty-eight, the daughter ten, yet the face on the pillow was the more childish at present. In the mother’s eyes was a helpless look, a gaze of unintelligent misery, such as one could not conceive on Ida’s countenance; her lips, too, were weakly parted, and seemed trembling to a sob, whilst sorrow only made the child close hers the firmer. In the one case a pallor not merely of present illness, but that wasting whiteness which is only seen on faces accustomed to borrow artificial hues; in the
