voice, so warm, so
close, it half stifled her--it seemed to be in her breast under her
heart--laughed out, and said, "I'm gran's boy!"

At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman
appeared, dressed for walking.

"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out."

"Very good, sir."

"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you
didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here--did you?"

"No, sir." "Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of
cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll
always tell me when you throw things away--won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And
he walked off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact,
he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as
vigilant as a woman.

The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But
when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought
of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's
what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to
arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a
child suffer like that.

... From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as though
something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in
his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang
out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump
bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than
all was when he didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke
or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended.

"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker,
patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie
moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he
looked--and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as
though he couldn't have believed it of his gran.

But at the last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she
simply couldn't think about it. It was too much--she'd had too much
in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herself
to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living
soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a
proud face always. But now! Len