As the
minutes passed, and the rain still streamed against the windows, a
loathing of the place and the people came over Charity. The sight of
the weak-minded old woman, of the cowed children, and the ragged man
sleeping off his liquor, made the setting of her own life seem a vision
of peace and plenty. She thought of the kitchen at Mr. Royall's, with
its scrubbed floor and dresser full of china, and the peculiar smell of
yeast and coffee and soft-soap that she had always hated, but that now
seemed the very symbol of household order. She saw Mr. Royall's room,
with the high-backed horsehair chair, the faded rag carpet, the row of
books on a shelf, the engraving of "The Surrender of Burgoyne" over
the stove, and the mat with a brown and white spaniel on a moss-green
border. And then her mind travelled to Miss Hatchard's house, where all
was freshness, purity and fragrance, and compared to which the red house
had always seemed so poor and plain.
"This is where I belong--this is where I belong," she kept repeating to
herself; but the words had no meaning for her.
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