eville Street. Lucy came more and
more as the months went by.

Rhoda said once, "Doesn't it bother you to come all this way, into these
ugly streets?" and she shook her head.

"Oh, I _like_ it. I like these streets better than the ones round us. And
I like your house better than ours too; it's smaller."

Rhoda could have thought she looked wistful, this fortunate person who
was in love with her splendid husband and lived in the dwellings of the
prosperous.

"Don't you like large houses?" she asked, without much caring; for she
was absorbed in her own thoughts in these days.

Lucy puckered her wide forehead.

"Why, no. No, I don't believe I do," she said, as if she was finding it
out with a little surprise.

Rhoda saw her one day in July. In a few weeks, she told Rhoda (Peter was
out that afternoon), she and Denis were going up to Scotland, to stay
with people.

"We shall miss you," said Rhoda dully.

"And me you," said Lucy, with a more acute sense of it.

"Peter'll miss you dreadfully," said Rhoda. She was lying on the sofa,
pale and tired in the heat.

"Only," said Lucy, "next month you'll both be feeling too interested to
miss anyone."

"Peter," said Rhoda, "cares more about the baby coming than I do."

Lucy said, "Peter loves little weak funny things like that." She was a
little sad that Rhoda didn't seem to care more about the baby; babies are
such entrancing toys to those who like toys, people like her and Peter.

Suddenly Lucy saw that two large tears were rolling down Rhoda's pale
cheeks as she lay. Lucy knelt by the sofa side and took Rhoda's hand in
both of hers and laid her cheek upon it.

"Please, little Rhoda, not to cry. Please, little Rhoda, tell me."

Rhoda, with her other hand, brushed the tears away.

"I'm a silly. I suppose I'm crying because I can't feel to care about
anything in the world, and I wish I could. What's the use of a baby if
you can't love it? What's the use of a husb--"

Lucy's hand was over her lips, and Lucy whispered, "Oh, hush, little
Rhoda, hush!"

But Rhoda pushed the hand away and cried, "Oh, why do we pretend and
pretend and pretend? It's Guy I care for--Guy, Guy, Guy, who's gone for
good and all."

She fell to crying drearily, with Lucy's arms about her.

"But you _mustn't_ cry," said Lucy, her own eyes brimming over; "you
mustn't, you mustn't. And you do care for Peter, you know you do, only
it's so hot, and you're tired and ill. If that horrible Guy