II

_District Messenger 3457_

The home of District Messenger 3457, who was known in private life as
Bobby Wentworth, was what is technically called a basement kitchen.

Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple of
hours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least an
hour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, things
got sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house.
Ten to one that the baby--the tow-headed youngest--was a bit fussy; ten
to one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke to her, though,
considering everything, she was remarkably patient; ten to one that
every torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous that you
felt like a poor lone orphan girl and wanted to cry. If you did n't
live below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to get
supper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp was
lighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire.

Then what a change! Instantly it was as though every one was tucked in
from the night as children get tucked into bed. Not being able to see
out of the windows any longer it was possible to imagine out there what
one wished,--a big field, for instance, sprinkled over with flowers.
The dull grays on wall and ceiling became brightened as though mixed
with gold fire paint. Everything snuggled in closer; the kitchen table
covered with a red table-cloth, the mirror with putty in the centre of
the crack to keep the pieces from falling out, the kitchen stove, the
wooden chairs, the iron sink with the tin dishes hanging over it, and
the shelf on the wall with the wooden clock ticking cheerfully away,
all closed in noiselessly nearer to the lamp. Ten to one that now
mother glanced up with a smile; ten to one that the baby chuckled and
fell to playing with his toes if he could n't find anything better
within reach; ten to one there was nothing in the room that did n't
look almost new. One thing was certain,--the light did n't reveal any
dirt that would come off for there was n't any. Mrs. Wentworth's New
England ancestry and training had survived even the blows of a hard
luck which had n't fought her fair.

On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbworn
volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when--there came a kick on the outside
door and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The next
minute Bobby entered with hi