re her eyes reached the tall
figure of the woman in a gown of chocolate percale, who was frying
cutlets at the big littered range. Her face was dark with heat, and
streaked with perspiration. She turned as Margaret entered, and gave
a delighted cry.

"Well, there's my girl! Bless her heart! Look out for this spoon,
lovey," she added immediately, giving the girl a guarded embrace.
Tears of joy stood frankly in her fine eyes.

"I meant to have all of this out of the way, dear," apologized
Mrs. Paget, with a gesture that included cakes in the process of
frosting, salad vegetables in the process of cooling, soup in the
process of getting strained, great loaves of bread that sent a
delicious fragrance over all the other odors. "But we didn't look
for you until six."

"Oh, no matter!" Margaret said bravely.

"Rebecca tell you Dad didn't get his raise?" called Mrs. Paget, in a
voice that rose above the various noises of the kitchen. "Blanche!"
she protested, "can't that wait?" for the old negress had begun to
crack ice with deafening smashes. But Blanche did not hear, so Mrs.
Paget continued loudly: "Dad saw Redman himself; he'll tell you about
it! Don't stay in the kitchen in that pretty dress, dear! I'm coming
right upstairs."

It was very hot upstairs; the bedrooms smelled faintly of matting, the
soap in the bathroom was shrivelled in its saucer. In Margaret's old
room the week's washing had been piled high on the bed. She took off
her hat and linen coat, brushed her hair back from her face, flinging
her head back and shutting her eyes the better to fight tears, as she
did so, and began to assort the collars and shirts and put them away.
For Dad's bureau--for Bruce's bureau--for the boys' bureau, table
cloths to go downstairs, towels for the shelves in the bathroom. Two
little shirtwaists for Rebecca with little holes torn through them
where collar and belt pins belonged.

Her last journey took her to the big, third-story room where the three
younger boys slept. The three narrow beds were still unmade, and the
western sunlight poured over tumbled blankets and the scattered small
possessions that seem to ooze from the pores of little boys, Margaret
set her lips distastefully as she brought order out of chaos. It was
all wrong, somehow, she thought, gathering handkerchiefs and matches
and "Nick Carters" and the oiled paper that had wrapped caramels from
under the pillows that would in a few hours harbor a fresh supply