she protested, "can't that wait?" for the old negress had begun to
crack ice with deafening smashes. But Blanche did not hear, so Mrs.
Paget continued loudly: "Dad saw Redman himself; he'll tell you about
it! Don't stay in the kitchen in that pretty dress, dear! I'm coming
right upstairs."

It was very hot upstairs; the bedrooms smelled faintly of matting, the
soap in the bathroom was shrivelled in its saucer. In Margaret's old
room the week's washing had been piled high on the bed. She took off
her hat and linen coat, brushed her hair back from her face, flinging
her head back and shutting her eyes the better to fight tears, as she
did so, and began to assort the collars and shirts and put them away.
For Dad's bureau--for Bruce's bureau--for the boys' bureau, table
cloths to go downstairs, towels for the shelves in the bathroom. Two
little shirtwaists for Rebecca with little holes torn through them
where collar and belt pins belonged.

Her last journey took her to the big, third-story room where the three
younger boys slept. The three narrow beds were still unmade, and the
western sunlight poured over tumbled blankets and the scattered small
possessions that seem to ooze from the pores of little boys, Margaret
set her lips distastefully as she brought order out of chaos. It was
all wrong, somehow, she thought, gathering handkerchiefs and matches
and "Nick Carters" and the oiled paper that had wrapped caramels from
under the pillows that would in a few hours harbor a fresh supply.

She went out on the porch in time to put her arms about her father's
shabby shoulders when he came in. Mr. Paget was tired, and he told his
wife and daughters that he thought he was a very sick man. Margaret's
mother met this statement with an anxious solicitude that was very