The other guests arrived, and after making the pilgrimage up-stairs,
seated themselves in the front parlor to slide up and down the
horse-hair furniture and await the entrance of the doctor. The room was
funereal. The storm-ridden trees lashed the bare dripping windows. The
carpet was threadbare. White crocheted tidies lent their emphasis to the
hideous black furniture. A table, with marble top, like a graveyard
slab, stood in the middle of the room. On it was a bunch of wax flowers
in a glass case. On the white plastered walls hung family photographs in
narrow gilt frames. In a conspicuous place was the doctor's diploma. In
another, Miss Webster's first sampler. "The first piano ever brought to
California" stood in a corner, looking like the ghost of an ancient
spinet. Miss Williams half expected to find it some day standing on
three legs, resting the other.
Miss Webster sat on a high-backed chair by the table, nervously striving
to entertain her fashionable guests. The women huddled together to keep
warm, regardless of their expensive raiment. The men stood in a corner,
reviling the mid-day dinner in prospect. Miss Williams drifted into a
chair and gazed dully on the accustomed scene.
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