She was handsomely dressed in stout black silk, of which not a thread was worn or discoloured. She was mending a large, long table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up against the light occasionally to discover thin places, which required her delicate care. There was not a book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew Henry's Bible commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of the massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on the other. In some remote apartment, there was exercise upon the piano going on. Someone was practising up a morceau de salon, playing it very rapidly, every third note, on an average, being either indistinct, or wholly missed out, and the loud chords at the end being half of them false, but not the less satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton heard a step, like her own in its decisive character, pass the dining-room door.
"John! Is that you?"
Her son opened the door, and showed himself.

 handsomely dressed in black silk. She was mending a large table-cloth, holding it up against the light occasionally. There was not a book in the room, except six volumes of Bible Commentaries, which lay on the sideboard, flanked by a tea-urn and a lamp. In some remote room, someone was practising the piano very rapidly and rather carelessly. Mrs. Thornton heard a decisive step pass the dining-room door.
'John! Is that you?'
Her son opened the door.
