"
Marshall drove home thoughtfully in the new carriage, with the new
horses, and August in his new cape-coat. Eliza Marshall, who had sat
gingerly upon the edge of her seat in driving out, now leaned back at her
ease when returning; it seemed that, with a little practice, she might
easily become habituated to luxury. As she re-entered her old familiar
parlor, she almost gave a gulp of mortification over its plainness and
shabbiness; for the first time in years she had given herself a chance to
know it for what it was.
"There, now," Jane declared loudly, "you've both seen what money and
brains can do. Well, haven't _we_ got money? Haven't _we_ got brains? Is
there any reason why _we_ shouldn't be known, and looked up to, and
respected?" And at breakfast next morning she opened out upon her father
once more. Her lunch-room was now, thanks to her solicitings and her
concert, in full running order, and moving on to a marked success. To-day
she was rising to a more ambitious plane. Not a college building, not
an assembly-hall; no, during the watches of the night she had risen to
the conception of a working-girls' home. Her father had been listening to
the mellow and flowing hautboy of Susan Bates, and to the deep diapason
of Tom Bingham; but his daughter had now pulled out the coupler and was
screaming shrilly above all the other voices of the organ. He felt almost
deafened, stunned.
The "second girl" came in, frightened.
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