not knowing where to put them;
she got sick of it and just threw some of them into a closet, anything
to get them out of sight for the time. She knew that was not the way to
do, that it would make it harder another time. She felt like crying. It
seemed things had got ahead of her, that she was swamped by them, and
somehow she did not have the spirit, or the strength, to get a new
start, make a new plan.

Finally she had the room looking a little less slovenly, not so sordid,
and was about to sit down with her magazine. But the lamp was
flickering, and then she remembered that she had not filled it that day.
She picked the lamp up and slowly, drooping, started for the kitchen.
She gave the can an angry little tilt and the oil overflowed on the
table. She was biting her lips as she went about looking for a cloth to
wipe it up. She heard sleigh bells and knew Stuart was coming. Hastily
she washed the oil from her hands, she always hated herself when her
hands smelled of kerosene, and began getting things ready for supper.

Stuart came hurrying and stamping in after putting the horse away,
quickly banging the door shut and standing there pounding his feet and
rubbing his stiffened hands.

"Fearfully cold?" she inquired, hurriedly getting out the box of codfish
she was going to cream for their supper.

"Cold!" he scoffed, as if in scorn for the inadequacy of the word. After
a minute he came up to the stove. "I was afraid," he said, holding his
right hand in his left, "that it had got these fingers."

He took off his big bear-skin coat. A package he had taken from the
pocket of it he threw over on the kitchen table. "Don't throw the bacon
there, Stuart," hurriedly advised Ruth, busy with the cream sauce she
was making, "I've just spilled oil there."

"Heavens!" he said irritably, shoving the bacon farther back.

His tone made Ruth's hand tremble. "If you think I'm so careless you
might fill the lamps yourself," she said tremulously.

"Who said you were careless?" he muttered. He went in the other room and
after a minute called out, as one trying to be pleasant, "What we going
to have for supper?"

"Creamed codfish," she told him.

"For a little change!" he said, under his breath.

"I don't think that's very kind, Stuart," she called back, quiveringly.
"It's not so simple a matter to have 'changes' here now."

"Oh, I know it," he said, wearily.

She brought the things in and they began the meal in silence. She