is fierce rays nearly all the long day into
the two windows, old paper shades filled with pin holes the only
protection against him. Large companies of flies, too, arrived daily,
and evidently came to stay; the butter turned to oil; eatables grew
unpalatable; the whole house seemed stuffy and unendurable.

It was one of those warm spring mornings when vital energies flag,
that Mr. and Mrs. Vincent toiled up the third flight of stairs; the
halls filled with execrable odours of fried ham and cheap coffee;
each busy with their own thoughts, possibly of green fields,
apple-blossoms, spring violets, tables with damask and silver, cool,
inviting rooms, and other equally tantalising suggestions. Faith, at
the top, panting and pale as any lily, drew from her husband the
exclamation:

"My dear, you cannot endure it any longer; something must be done."

That something seemed all the more imperative, since Daisy was
beginning to droop and have feverish days over the advent of each
little white tooth. Many perplexed conferences followed.

"You see," said Mr. Vincent, trying to speak cheerfully, "one of us
orphans ought to have married some one who had a father and mother,
and an old homestead to go to in an emergency like this. As it is, I
do not see any other way but for you to take baby and go to my uncle
Joshua's for the summer. You will be made welcome, at least, and have
good food and good air."

"What if we go to housekeeping in a small way?" Faith suggested.

"It would have to be in a very small way indeed," laughed Frank.
"Why, the birds of the air have more to set up housekeeping with than
we; they have furnished rooms, rent free. Think of rent, furniture,
and all the pots and kettles and pans that housekeeping requires,
besides wages to a girl. Never do, wine, my salary wouldn't cover. I
have often heard people say it was much cheaper to board than to keep
house."

"But we might take a small house in the suburbs and furnish it by
degrees, and I could do my own work," persisted Faith.

"My poor little white lily," said Frank, "you know not whereof you
speak, Think of a little hot house, you broiling over a cook-stove,
and baby crying for your care; besides, my dear, you are not
accustomed to work. I shouldn't wonder, now, if I knew just about as,
much as you do about cooking. I think I can see you with blistered
fingers and aching head, studying cook-books. No, Faith, we shall be
obliged to live in two places thi