le what it ought to be if I let you help. Go on!"

John brushed past her and lifted the bread-box.

The fierce heat of the cook stove, the pain in her back, the certain
knowledge of suggestions to come, broke down the poise the girl was trying
to maintain.

"I don't want any remarks about that bread-box! I've got sense enough to
get supper. Go on out to your own work and let me attend to mine."

John Hunter stepped back in astonishment. He had been sympathetic, and had
really wanted to be helpful. He was insulted and struck an attitude
intended to convey the fact, but his wife closed the oven door with a bang
and left the room without looking at him.

John punished his wife that night by letting her wash the supper dishes
alone.

The next morning John continued to be aloof of manner and went to his work
without attempting to empty the skimmed milk as usual, or to strain the
new milk which stood at the top of the long cellar stairs. Elizabeth
skimmed and strained and put the shelves in order. Her head ached, and her
back never ceased hurting. When the last crock had been carried from the
cave, the half-sick girl dragged herself to the bedroom and threw herself
down on the unmade bed.

"I don't care--I won't do another stroke till I feel better, if it's never
done. It wasn't nice for me to scold yesterday when he really wanted to
help, but he makes so much extra work that I _can't_ get it all done. It
don't hurt him any more to be scolded than it does me to be kept on my
feet after everything in my body is pulling out. He won't run off again
and leave me to carry that heavy milk. I don't know why I didn't just
leave it."

Elizabeth did not realize that she had done more than waste useful
strength on useless tasks. She had yet to find out that it would have been
cheaper to have left the entire contents of the cellar to sour or mould
than to have worked on after she could do no more in comfort. It took
Doctor Morgan to point out to her that farmers and their wives place undue
value on a dollar's worth of milk, and that they support those of his
profession at a far greater price than their butter would cost if they fed
the milk to the pigs; also that they fill the asylums with victims and
give younger women the chance to spend what they have worked to save after
they are transplanted to other regions. They had been obliged to send for
the doctor at noon.

The name of peritonitis did not impress the young wife with