arents, his brothers and sisters, and
what he said when he said his prayers, and had he walked with other
girls, and, if so, what had he said to them, and what did he really
and truly think of her? Her curiosity on all these points was abundant
and eager, but she did not dare to even hint a question.

One of the queries often touched upon by him she eluded--she shrank
from it with something like terror--it was, "What was her mother's
business?" She could not bear to say that her mother was a charwoman.
It did not seem fitting. She suddenly hated and was ashamed of this
occupation. It took on an aspect of incredible baseness. It seemed to
be the meanest employment wherein any one could be engaged; and so
when the question, conveyed in a variety of ways, had to be answered
it was answered with reservations--Mary Makebelieve told him a lie.
She said her mother was a dressmaker.

XIV

One night when Mrs. Makebelieve came home she was very low-spirited
indeed. She complained once more of a headache and of a languor which
she could not account for. She said it gave her all the trouble in the
world to lift a bucket. It was not exactly that she could not lift a
bucket, but that she could scarcely close her mind down to the fact
that a bucket had to be lifted. Some spring of willingness seemed to
be temporarily absent. To close her two hands on a floor-cloth and
twist it into a spiral in order to wring it thoroughly was a thing
which she found herself imagining she could do if she liked, but had
not the least wish to do. These duties, even when she was engaged in
them, had a curious quality of remoteness. The bucket into which her
hand had been plunged a moment before seemed somehow incredibly
distant. To lift the soap lying beside the bucket one would require an
arm of more than human reach, and having washed, or rather dabbed, at
a square of flooring, it was a matter of grave concern how to reach
the unwashed part just beyond without moving herself. This languor
alarmed her. The pain in her head, while it was severe, did not really
matter. Every one had pains and aches, sores and sprains, but this
unknown weariness and disinclination for the very slightest exertion
gave her a fright.

Mary tempted her to come out and watch the people going into the
Gayety Theater. She said a certain actor was playing whom all the
women of Dublin make pilgrimages, even from distant places, to look
at; and by going at once they migh