"I'll take the baby," said Tilly. She hoisted the infant
on to her own shoulder with her right arm. "Perhaps you'll
be so kind's to turn the handle of the door," said she in a
slightly caustic tone, "as I haven't got any hands left.
Please shut it, too."

As the young mother opened the door, Tilly entered the parlor.
For a second she stood and stared grimly about her. The furniture
of the room was old-fashioned but in the best repair. There was
a cabinet organ in one corner. A crayon portrait of Tilly's father
(killed in the civil war) glared out of a florid gilt frame.
Perhaps it was the fault of the portrait, but he had a peevish frown.
There were two other portraits of him, large ghastly gray tintypes
in oval frames of rosewood, obscurely suggesting coffins.
In these he looked distinctly sullen. He was represented in uniform
(being a lieutenant of volunteers), and the artist had conscientiously
gilded his buttons until, as Mrs. Louder was wont to observe,
"It most made you want to cut them off with the scissors."
There were other tintypes and a flock of photographs in the room.
What Mrs. Louder named "a throw" decorated each framed picture and
each chair. The largest arm-chair was drawn up to a table covered
with books and magazines: in the chair sat Mrs. Louder, reading.

At Tilly's entrance she started and turned her head, and then
one could see that the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Now, MOTHER!" exploded Tilly. Kicking the door open,
she marched into the bed-chamber. An indignant sweep of one
arm sent the miscellany of gifts into a rocking-chair;