almost immediately, followed by a string of little
Wilkinsons, clamoring to go along.

"Do you mind?" he asked her. "They can trail along behind. The poor kids
don't get out much."

"Bring them along, of course," she said, somewhat resignedly. And with a
flash of her old spirit: "I might have brought Jinx, too. Then we'd have
had a real procession."

They moved down the street, with five little Wilkinsons trailing along
behind, and Edith was uncomfortably aware that Joe's eyes were upon her.

"You don't look well," he said at last. "You're wearing yourself out
taking care of your mother, Edith."

"I don't do much for her."

"You'd say that, of course. You're very unselfish."

"Am I?" She laughed a little, but the words touched her. "Don't think
I'm better than I am, Joe."

"You're the most wonderful girl in the world. I guess you know how I
feel about that."

"Don't Joe!"

But at that moment a very little Wilkinson fell headlong and burst into
loud, despairing wails. Joe set her on her feet, brushed her down with
a fatherly hand, and on her refusal to walk further picked her up and
carried her. The obvious impossibility of going on with what he had been
saying made him smile sheepishly.

"Can you beat it?" he said helplessly, "these darn kids--!" But he held
the child close.

At the next corner he turned toward home. Edith stopped and watched his
valiant young back, his small train of followers. He was going to be
very sad when he knew, poor Joe, with his vicarious fatherhood, his
cluttered, noisy, anxious life.

Life was queer. Queer and cruel.

From the doctor's office, the waiting room lined with patient figures,
she went on. She had a very definite plan in mind, but it took all
her courage to carry it through. Outside the Benedict Apartments she
hesitated, but she went in finally, upheld by sheer determination.

The chair at the telephone desk was empty, but Sam remembered her.

"He's out, miss," he said. "He's out most all the time now, with the
election coming on."

"What time does he usually get in?"

"Sometimes early, sometimes late," said Sam, watching her. Everything
pertaining to Louis Akers was of supreme interest those days to the
Benedict employees. The beating he had received, the coming election,
the mysterious young woman who had come but once, and the black days
that had followed his return from the St. Elmo--out of such patchwork
they were building a small drama of their own.