PART ONE - CHAPTER I

by Kathleen Norris

　　To Emeline, wife of George Page, there came slowly, in her thirtiethyear, a sullen conviction that life was monstrously unfair. From aresentful realization that she was not happy in her marriage, Emeline'smind went back to the days of her pert, precocious childhood and herrestless and discontented girlhood, and she felt, with a sort ofsmouldering fury, that she had never been happy, had never had a fairchance, at all!

　　It took Mrs. Page some years to come to this conclusion, for, if she wasshrewd and sharp among the women she knew, she was, in essential things,an unintelligent woman, and mental effort of any sort was strange toher. Throughout her entire life, her mind had never been truly awakened.She had scrambled through Grammar School, and had followed it with fiveyears as saleswoman in a millinery store, in that district of SanFrancisco known as the Mission, marrying George Page at twenty-three,and up to that time well enough pleased with herself and her life.

　　But that was eight years ago. Now Emeline could see that she hadreached—more, she had passed—her prime. She began to see that themoods of those early years, however violent and changing, had been fedupon secret springs of hope, hope vague and baseless enough, but strongto colour a girl's life with all the brightness of a thousand dawns.There had been rare potentialities in those days, anything might happen,something would happen. The little Emeline Cox, moving between thedreary discomfort of home and the hated routine of school, mightsurprise all these dull seniors and school-mates some day! She mightbecome an actress, she might become a great singer, she might make abrilliant marriage.

　　As she grew older and grew prettier, these vague, bright dreamsstrengthened. Emeline's mother was an overworked and shrill-voicedwoman, whose personality drove from the Shotwell Street house whateversmall comfort poverty and overcrowding and dirt left in it. She had nopersonal message for Emeline. The older woman had never learned the careof herself, her children, her husband, or her house. She had naturallynothing to teach her daughter. Emeline's father occasionally thundered afurious warning to his daughters as to certain primitive moral laws. Hedid not tell Emeline and her sisters why they might some day consent toabandon the path of virtue, nor when, nor how. He never dreamed ofwinning their affection and confidence, or of selecting their friends,and making home a place to which these friends might occasionally come.But he was fond of shouting, when Emeline, May, or Stella pinned ontheir flimsy little hats for an evening walk, that if ever a girl of hismade a fool of herself and got into trouble, she need never come nearhis door again! Perhaps Emeline and May and Stella felt that thevirtuous course, as exemplified by their parents, was not all of roses,either, but they never said so, and always shuddered dutifully at thepaternal warning.

　　School also failed with the education of the inner Emeline, although shemoved successfully from a process known as "diagramming" sentences to aserious literary analysis of "Snow-Bound" and "Evangeline," and passedterrifying examinations in ancient history, geography, and advancedproblems in arithmetic. By the time she left school she was a tall,giggling, black-eyed creature, to be found walking up and down MissionStreet, and gossiping and chewing gum on almost any sunny afternoon.Between her mother's whining and her father's bullying, home life wasnot very pleasant, but at least there was nothing unusual in thesituation; among all the girls that Emeline knew there was not one whocould go back to a clean room, a hospitable dining-room, a well-cookedand nourishing meal. All her friends did as she did: wheedled money fornew veils and new shoes from their fathers, helped their mothersreluctantly and scornfully when they must, slipped away to the street asoften as possible, and when they were at home, added their complaintsand protests to the general unpleasantness.

　　Had there been anything different before her eyes, who knows what plansfor domestic reform might have taken shape in the girl's plastic brain?Emeline had never seen one example of real affection and cooperationbetween mother and daughters, of work quickly and skilfully done andforgotten, of a clean bright house and a blossoming garden; she hadnever heard a theory otherwise than that she was poor, her friends werepoor, her parents were poor, and that born under the wheels of amonstrous social injustice, she might just as well be dirty anddiscouraged and discontented at once and have done with it, for in theend she must be so. Why should she question the abiding belief? Emelineknew that, with her father's good pay and the excellent salaries earnedby her hard-handed, patient-eyed, stupid young brothers, the familyincome ran well up toward three hundred dollars a month: her fatherworked steadily at five dollars a day, George was a roofer's assistantand earned eighty dollars a month, and Chester worked in a plumber'sshop, and at eighteen was paid sixty-five dollars. Emeline could onlyconclude that three hundred dollars a month was insufficient to preventdirt, crowding, scolding, miserable meals, and an incessant atmosphereof warm soapsuds.

　　Presently she outraged her father by going into "Delphine's" millinerystore. Delphine was really a stout, bleached woman named Lizzie Clarke,whose reputation was not quite good, although nobody knew anythingdefinite against her. She had a double store on Market Street nearEleventh, a dreary place, with dusty models in the windows, tornNottingham curtains draped behind them, and "Delphine" scrawled in goldacross the dusty windows in front. Emeline used to wonder, in the dayswhen she and her giggling associates passed "Delphine's" window, whoever bought the dreadful hats in the left-hand window, although theyadmitted a certain attraction on the right. Here would be a sign: "AnyHat in this Window, Two Dollars," surrounded by cheap, dust-grainedfelts, gaudily trimmed, or coarse straws wreathed with cotton flowers.Once or twice Emeline and her friends went in, and one day when a cardin the window informed the passers-by that an experienced saleslady waswanted, the girl, sick of the situation at home and longing for novelty,boldly applied for the position. Miss Clarke engaged her at once.

　　Emeline met, as she had expected, a storm at home, but she weathered it,and kept her position. It was hard work, and poorly paid, but the girl'sdreams gilded everything, and she loved the excitement of making sales,came eagerly to the gossip and joking of her fellow-workers everymorning, and really felt herself to be in the current of life at last.

　　Miss Clarke was no better than her reputation, and would have willinglyhelped her young saleswoman into a different sort of life. But Emeline'slittle streak of shrewd selfishness saved her. Emeline indulged in ahundred little coarsenesses and indiscretions, but take the final steptoward ruin she would not. Nobody was going to get the better of her,she boasted. She used rouge and lip red. She "met fellers" under flaminggas jets, and went to dance halls with them, and to the Sunday picnicsthat were her father's especial abomination; she shyly told vile storiesand timidly used strong words, but there it ended. Perhaps some tatteredremnant of the golden dream still hung before her eyes; perhaps shestill clung to the hope of a dim, wonderful time to come.

　　More than that, the boys she knew were not a vicious lot; the Jimmiesand Johnnies, the Dans and Eds, were for the most part neighbours, nomore anxious to antagonize Emeline's father than she was. They mightkiss her good-night at her door, they might deliberately try to get thegirls to miss the last train home from the picnic, but their spirit wasof idle mischief rather than malice, and a stinging slap from Emeline'shand afforded them, as it did her, a certain shamed satisfaction.

　　George Page came into "Delphine's" on a windy summer afternoon whenEmeline had been there for nearly five years. He was a salesman for somelines of tailored hats, a San Franciscan, but employed by a New Yorkwholesale house. Emeline chanced to be alone in the place, for MissClarke was sick in bed, and the other saleswoman away on her vacation.The trimmers, glancing out through a plush curtain at the rear, saw MissCox and the "drummer" absorbed in a three hours' conversation. From twoto five o'clock they talked; the drummer watching her in obviousadmiration when an occasional customer interrupted, and when Miss Coxwent home the drummer escorted her. Emeline had left the parental roofsome two years before; she was rooming, now, with a mild and virtuousgirl named Regina Lynch, in Howard Street. Regina was the sort of girlfrequently selected by a girl of Emeline's type for confidante andcompanion: timid, conventional, always ready to laugh and admire. Reginaconsented to go to dinner with Emeline and Mr. Page, and as she laterrefused to go to the theatre, Emeline would not go either; they allwalked out Market Street from the restaurant, and reached the HowardStreet house at about nine o'clock. Regina went straight upstairs, butEmeline and George Page sat on the steps an hour longer, under thebright summer moon, and when Emeline went upstairs she woke her roommateup, and announced her engagement.

　　George came into the store at nine o'clock the next morning, toradiantly confirm all that they had said the night before, and withgreat simplicity the two began to plan for their future; from that timethey had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together every day; they were bothutterly satisfied; they never questioned their fate. In October Georgehad to go to San Diego, and a dozen little cities en route, for thefirm, and Emeline went, too. They were married in the little church ofSaint Charles in Eighteenth Street, only an hour or two before theystarted for San Jose, the first stop in George's itinerary. Emeline'smother and sisters came to her wedding, but the men of the family wereworking on this week-day afternoon. The bride looked excited and happy,colour burned scarlet in her cheeks, under her outrageous hat; she worea brown travelling gown, and the lemon-coloured gloves that were popularin that day. Emeline felt that she was leaving everything unpleasant inlife behind her. George was the husband of her dreams—or perhaps herdreams had temporarily adapted themselves to George.

　　But, indeed, he was an exceptionally good fellow. He was handsome, big,dashingly dressed. He was steady and successful in his work, domestic inhis tastes, and tenderly—and perhaps to-day a little pityingly—devotedto this pretty, clever girl who loved him so, and had such faith in him.His life had kept him a good deal among men, and rather coarse men; hehad had to do more drinking than he cared to do, to play a good deal ofpoker, to listen to a good deal of loose talk. Now, George felt a greatrelief that this was over; he wanted a home, a wife, children.

　　The bride and groom had a cloudless three weeks of honeymoon among ascore of little Southern towns—and were scarcely less happy during thefirst months of settling down. Emeline was entirely ignorant of what wassuitable or desirable in a home, and George had only the crude ideals ofa travelling man to guide him. They enthusiastically selected a flat offour handsome, large, dark rooms, over a corner saloon, on O'FarrellStreet. The building was new, the neighbourhood well built, and filledwith stirring, interesting life. George said it was conveniently nearthe restaurant and theatre district, and to Emeline, after MissionStreet, it seemed the very hub of the world. The suite consisted of alarge front drawing-room, connected by enormous folding doors with arear drawing-room, which the Pages would use as a bedroom, a largedining-room, and a dark kitchen, equipped with range and "water back."There were several enormous closets, and the stairs and hall, used bythe several tenants of the house, were carpeted richly. The Pages alsocarpeted their own rooms, hung the stiff folds of Nottingham lacecurtains at the high narrow windows, and selected a set of the heavilyupholstered furniture of the period for their drawing-room. WhenEmeline's mother and sisters came to call, Emeline showed them hergold-framed pictures, her curly-maple bed and bureau, her glass closetin the dining-room, with its curved glass front and sides and itsshining contents—berry saucers and almond dishes in pressed glass, andother luxuries to which the late Miss Cox had been entirely a stranger.Emeline was intoxicated with the freedom and the pleasures of her newlife; George was out of town two or three nights a week, but when he wasat home the two slept late of mornings, and loitered over theirbreakfast, Emeline in a loose wrapper, filling and refilling her coffeecup, while George rattled the paper and filled the room with the odourof cigarettes.

　　Then Emeline was left to put her house in order, and dress herself forthe day—her corsets laced tight at the waist, her black hair crimpedelaborately above her bang, her pleated skirts draped fashionably overher bustle. George would come back at one o'clock to take her to lunch,and after lunch they wandered up and down Kearney and Market streets,laughing and chatting, glad just to be alive and together. Sometimesthey dined downtown, too, and afterward went to the "Tivoli" or"Morosco's," or even the Baldwin Theatre, and sometimes bought andcarried home the materials for a dinner, and invited a few of George'smen friends to enjoy it with them. These were happy times; Emeline,flushed and pretty in her improvised apron, queened it over the three orfour adoring males, and wondered why other women fussed so long overcooking, when men so obviously enjoyed a steak, baked potatoes, cannedvegetables, and a pie from Swain's. After dinner the men always playedpoker, a mild little game at first, with Emeline eagerly guarding alittle pile of chips, and gasping over every hand like a happy child;but later more seriously, when Emeline, contrary to poker superstition,sat on the arm of her husband's chair, to bring him luck.

　　Luck she certainly seemed to bring him; the Pages would go yawning tobed, after one of these evenings, chuckling over the various hands.

　　"I couldn't see what you drew, George," Emeline would say, "but I couldsee that Mack had aces on the roof, and it made me crazy to have you goon raising that way! And then your three fish hooks!"

　　George would shout with pride at her use of poker terms—would laugh allthe harder if she used them incorrectly. And sometimes, sinkingluxuriously into the depths of the curly-maple bed, Emeline would thinkherself the luckiest woman in the world. No hurry about getting up inthe morning; no one to please but herself; pretty gowns and an adoringhusband and a home beyond her maddest hopes—the girl's dreams no longerfollowed her, happy reality had blotted out the dream.

　　She felt a little injured, a little frightened, when the day came onwhich she must tell George of some pretty well-founded suspicions of herown condition. George might be "mad," or he might laugh.

　　But George was wonderfully soothing and reassuring; more, waspathetically glad and proud. He petted Emeline into a sort of reluctantjoy, and the attitude of her mother and sisters and the few women sheknew was likewise flattering. Important, self-absorbed, she waited herappointed days, and in the early winter a wizened, mottled littledaughter was born. Julia was the name Emeline had chosen for a girl, andJulia was the name duly given her by the radiant and ecstatic George inthe very first hour of her life. Emeline had lost interest in thename—indeed, in the child and her father as well—just then; racked,bewildered, wholly spent, she lay back in the curly-maple bed, the firstlittle seed of that general resentment against life that was eventuallyto envelop her, forming in her mind.

　　They had told her that because of this or that she would not have a"hard time," and she had had a very hard time. They had told her thatshe would forget the cruel pain the instant it was over, and she knewshe never would forget it. It made her shudder weakly to think of allthe babies in the world—of the schools packed with children—at what acost!

　　Emeline recovered quickly, and shut her resentment into her own breast.Julie, as she was always called, was a cross baby, and nowadays the twofront rooms were usually draped with her damp undergarments, and odorousof sour bottles and drying clothes. For the few months that Emelinenursed the child she wandered about until late in the day in a loosewrapper, a margin of draggled nightgown showing under it, her hair in atumbled knot at the back of her head. If she had to run out for a loafof bread or a pound of coffee, she slipped on a street skirt, andbuttoned her long coat about her; her lean young throat would show, bareabove the lapels of the coat, but even this costume was not conspicuousin that particular neighbourhood.

　　By the time Julia was weaned, Emeline had formed the wrapper habit; shehad also slipped back to the old viewpoint: they were poor people, andthe poor couldn't afford to do things decently, to live comfortably.Emeline scolded and snapped at George, shook and scolded the cryingbaby, and loitered in the hall for long, complaining gossips with theother women of the house.

　　Time extricated the young Pages from these troubled days. Julia grewinto a handsome, precocious little girl of whom both parents could beproud. Emeline never quite recovered her girlish good looks, her facewas thin now, with prominent cheek bones; there was a little frowningline drawn between her eyes, and her expression was sharp and anxious,but she became more fond of dress than ever.

　　George's absences were a little longer in these days; he had been givena larger territory to cover—and Emeline naturally turned for societytoward her women neighbours. There were one or two very congenialmarried women of her own type in the same house, pleasure-loving,excitable young women; one, a Mrs. Carter, with two children in school,the other, Mrs. Palmer, triumphantly childless. These introduced her toothers; sometimes half a dozen of them would go to a matinee together, anoisy, chattering group. During the matinee Julia would sit on hermother's lap, a small awed figure in a brief red silk dress and deeplace collar. Julia always had several chocolates from the boxes thatcirculated among her elders, and usually went to sleep during the lastact, and was dragged home, blinking and whining and wretched, by oneaching little arm.

　　George was passionately devoted to his little girl, and no toy was tooexpensive for Julia to demand. Emeline loved the baby, too, although sheaccepted as a martyrdom the responsibility of supplying Julia's needs.But the Pages themselves rather drifted apart with the years. Both wereselfish, and each accused the other of selfishness, although, as Emelinesaid stormily, no one had ever called her that before she was married,and, as George sullenly claimed, he himself had always been popularity'sself among the "fellows."

　　In all her life Emeline had never felt anything but a resentfulimpatience for whatever curtailed her liberty or disturbed her comfortin the slightest degree. She had never settled down to do cheerfullyanything that she did not want to do. She had shaken off the claims ofher own home as lightly as she had stepped from "Delphine's" to the moretempting position of George's wife. Now she could not believe that shewas destined to live on with a man who was becoming a confirmeddyspeptic, who thought she was a poor housekeeper, an extravagantshopper, a wretched cook, and worse than all, a sloven about herpersonal appearance. Emeline really was all these things at times, andsuspected it, but she had never been shown how to do anything else, andshe denied all charges noisily.

　　One night when Julia was about four George stamped out of the house,after a tirade against the prevailing disorder and some insultingremarks about "delicatessen food." Emeline sent a few furious remarksafter him, and then wept over the sliced ham, the potato salad, and theSaratoga chips, all of which she had brought home from a nearby delicacyshop in oily paper bags only an hour ago. She wandered disconsolatelythrough the four rooms that had been her home for nearly six years. Thedust lay thick on the polished wood and glass of the sideboard and glasscloset in the dining-room; ashes and the ends of cigarettes filled halfa dozen little receptacles here and there; a welter of newspapers hadformed a great drift in a corner of the room, and the thick velour daycover of the table had been pushed back to make way for a doubled andspotted tablecloth and the despised meal. The kitchen was hideous with aconfusion of souring bottles of milk, dirty dishes, hardened ends ofloaves, and a sticky jam jar or two; Emeline's range was spotted andrusty, she never fired it now; a three-burner gas plate sufficed for thefamily's needs. In the bedroom a dozen garments were flung over the footof the unmade bed, Julia's toys and clothing littered this and thesitting-room, the silk woof had been worn away on the heavilyupholstered furniture, and the strands of the cotton warp separated toshow the white lining beneath. On the mantel was a litter of medicinebottles and theatre programs, powder boxes, gloves and slippers,packages of gum and of cigarettes, and packs of cards, as well as moreornamental matters: china statuettes and glass cologne bottles, apalm-leaf fan with roses painted on it, a pincushion of redwood bark,and a plush rolling-pin with brass screws in it, hung by satin ribbons.Over all lay a thick coat of dust.

　　Emeline took Julia in her lap, and sat down in one of the patentrockers. She remained for a long time staring out of the front window.George's words burned angrily in her memory—she felt sick of life.

　　A spring twilight was closing down upon O'Farrell Street. In the row ofhouses opposite Emeline could see slits of gaslight behind loweredshades, and could look straight into the second floor of theestablishment that flourished behind a large sign bearing the words,"O'Connor, Modes." This row of bay-windowed houses had been occupied ashomes by very good families when the Pages first came to O'FarrellStreet, but six years had seen great changes in the block. A grocery andbar now occupied the corner, facing the saloon above which the Pageslived, and the respectable middle-class families had moved away, one byone, giving place to all sorts of business enterprises. Milliners anddressmakers took the first floors, and rented the upper rooms; onewindow said "Mme. Claire, Palmist," and another "Violin Lessons"; onebasement was occupied by a dealer in plaster statuary, and another by alittle restaurant. Most interesting of all to the stageloving Emelinewas the second floor, obliquely opposite her own, which bore an immensesign, "Gottoli, Wigs and Theatrical Supplies. Costumes of all sortsDesigned and on Hand." Between Gottoli's windows were two painted panelsrepresenting respectively a very angular, moustached young man in adress suit, and a girl in a Spanish dancer's costume, with a tambourine.Gottoli did not do a very flourishing business, but Emeline watched hisdoorway by the hour, and if ever her dreams came back now, it was atthese times.

　　To-night Julia went to sleep in her arms; she was an unexacting littlegirl, accustomed to being ignored much of the time, and humoured,over-indulged, and laughed at at long intervals. Emeline sat on and on,crying now and then, and gradually reducing herself to a more softenedmood, when she longed to be dear to George again, to please and contenthim. She had just made up her mind that this was no neighbourhood forideal home life, when George, smelling strongly of whiskey, butaffectionate and repentant, came in.

　　"What doing?" asked George, stumbling in the dark room.

　　"Just watching the cable cars go up and down," Emeline said, rousing.She set the dazed Julia on her feet, and groped for matches on themantel. A second later the stifling odour of block matches driftedthrough the room, and Emeline lighted a gas jet.

　　"Had your supper?" said she, as George sat down and took the child intohis arms.

　　"Nope," he answered, grinning ashamedly. "Thought maybe you and I'd goto dinner somewheres, Em."

　　Emeline was instantly her better self. While she flew into her bestclothes she told George that she knew she was a rotten manager, but shewas so darn sick of this darn flat—She had just been sitting therewondering if they hadn't better move into the country, say into Oakland.Her sister May lived there, they might get a house near May, with agarden for Julia, and a spare room where George could put up a friend.

　　George was clumsily enthusiastic. Gosh, if she would do that—if shecould stand its being a little quiet—

　　"I'd get to know the neighbours, and we'd have real good times," saidEmeline optimistically, "and it would be grand for Julie!"

　　Julia had by this time gone off to sleep in the centre of the large bed.Her mother removed the child's shoes and some of her clothing, withoutrousing her, loosened her garters, and unbuttoned whatever buttons shecould reach.

　　"She'll be all right," she said confidently. "She never wakes."

　　George lowered the gas, and they tiptoed out. But Julie did waken halfan hour later, as it happened, and screamed for company for ten hideousminutes. Then Miss Flossie Miniver, a young woman who had recentlyrented the top floor, and of whom Emeline and the other ladies of thehouse disapproved, came downstairs and softly entered the Page flat, andgathered the sobbing little girl to her warm, soft breast. Miss Miniversoothed her with a new stick of gum and a pincushion that looked like afat little pink satin leg, with a smart boot at one end and a ruffle oflace at the other, and left Julia peacefully settled down to sleep. ButJulia did not remember anything of this in the morning, and thepincushion had rolled under the bed, so Emeline never knew of it. Sheand George had a good dinner, and later went to the Orpheum, and werehappier than they had been for a long time.

　　The next Sunday they went to Oakland to see Emeline's sister, andpossibly to begin househunting. It was a cold, dark day, with a raw windblowing. Gulls dipped and screamed over the wake of the ferryboat thatcarried the Pages to Oakland, and after the warm cabin and the heatedtrain, they all shivered miserably as they got out at the appointedcorner. Oakland looked bleak and dreary, the wind was blowing chaff andpapers against fences and steps.

　　Emeline had rather lost sight of her sister for a year or two, and hadlast seen her in another and better house than the one which theypresently identified by street and number. The sisters had married atabout the same time, but Ed Torney was a shiftless and unfortunate man,never steadily at work, and always mildly surprised at the discomfort oflife. May had four children, and was expecting a fifth. Two of the olderchildren, stupid-looking little blondes, with colds in their noses, anddirt showing under the fair hair, were playing in the dooryard of theshabby cottage now. The gate hung loose, the ground was worn bare bychildren's feet and dug into holes where children had burrowed, andlittered with cans and ropes and boxes.

　　Emeline was genuinely shocked by the evidences of actual want inside.May was a thin, bent, sickly looking woman now, her graying hair hangingin a loose coil over her cotton wrapper. Floors everywhere were bare, afew chairs were here and there, a few beds running over with thinbedding, a table in the kitchen was covered with scattered dishes, somedirty and some clean. Ashes drifted out of the kitchen stove, and in thesink was a great tin dish-pan full of cool, greasy water. The oldestchild, a five-year-old girl, had followed these dazzling visitors in,and now mounted a box and attacked this dish-pan with pathetic energy.The two younger children sat on the floor, apathetically staring. Maymade only a few smiling apologies. They "could see how she was," shesaid, limping to a chair into which she dropped with a sigh of relief.They had had a "fierce" time since Ed—Ed was the husband andfather—had lost his job a year ago. He had not been able to getanything permanent since. Ed had been there just a minute ago, shesaid—and indeed the odour of tobacco was still strong on the closeair—but he had been having a good deal of stomach trouble of late, andthe children made him nervous, and he had gone out for a walk. Poor May,smiling gallantly over the difficulties of her life, drew her firstbornto her knees, brushed back the child's silky, pale hair with bony,trembling fingers, and prophesied that things would be easier whenmamma's girlies got to work: Evelyn was going to be a dressmaker, andMarguerite an actress.

　　"She can say a piece out of the Third Reader real cute—the childrennext door taught her," said May, but Marguerite would not be exploited;she dug her blonde head into her mother's shoulder in a panic ofshyness; and shortly afterward the Pages went away. Uncle George gaveeach child a dime, Julia kissed her little cousins good-bye, and Emelinefelt a sick spasm of pity and shame as May bade the children thank them,and thanked them herself. Emeline drew her sister to the door, andpressed two silver dollars, all she happened to have with her, into herhand.

　　"Aw, don't, Em, you oughtn't," May said, ashamed and turning crimson,but instantly she took the money. "We've had an awful hard time—or Iwouldn't!" said she, tears coming to her eyes.

　　"Oh, that's all right!" Emeline said uncomfortably, as she ran down thesteps. Her heart burned with sympathy for poor May, who had been sopretty and so clever! Emeline could not understand the change! May hadgraduated from High School with honours; she had held a good position asa bookkeeper in a grocery before her marriage, but, like Emeline, forthe real business of life she had had no preparation at all. Her ownoldest child could have managed the family finances and catered tosensitive stomachs with as much system and intelligence as May.

　　On the boat Emeline spoke of her little money gift to her sister, andGeorge roused himself from a deep study to approve and to reimburse her.They did not speak again of moving to the country, and went straightfrom the boat to a French table d'hote dinner, where Julia, enchanted atfinding herself warm and near food after the long cold adventures of theday, stuffed herself on sardines and sour bread, soup and salad, andshrimps and fried chicken, and drank tumblers of claret and sugar andice water.

　　There were still poker parties occasionally in the Page flat; Emelinewas quite familiar with poker phraseology now, and if George seemed lesspleased than he had been when she rattled away about hands, the men whocame were highly diverted by it. Two or three other wives generallyjoined the party now; there would be seven or eight players about theround table.

　　They all drank as they played, the room would get very warm, and reek oftobacco and of whiskey and beer. Sometimes Julia woke up with aterrified shout, and then, if Emeline were playing, she would getGeorge, or one of the other men or women, to go in and quiet the littlegirl. These games would not break up until two or three o'clock. Emelinewould be playing excitedly, her face flushed, her eyes shining, everyfibre of her being alert, when suddenly the life would seem to fade outof the whole game. An overwhelming ennui would seize her, a cold,clear-eyed fatigue—the cards would seem meaningless, a chill wouldshake her, a need of yawning. The whole company would be suddenlylikewise affected, the game would break up with a few brief words, andEmeline, going in with her guests to help them with hats and wraps,would find herself utterly silent, too cold and weary for even the mostcasual civilities. When the others had gone, she and George would turnthe lights out on the wreckage of the dining-room, and stagger silentlyto bed.

　　Fatigue would follow Emeline well into the next day after one of thesecard parties. If George was going out of town, she would send Julia offto play with other children in the house, and lie in bed until noon,getting up now and then to hold a conversation with some tradesmanthrough a crack in the door. At one she might sally forth in herfavourite combination of wrapper and coat to buy cream and rolls, andJulia would be regaled on sausages, hot cakes, bakery cookies, andcoffee, or come in to find no lunch at all, and that her mother had goneout for the afternoon.

　　Emeline had grown more and more infatuated with the theatre and all thatpertained to it. She went to matinees twice a week, and she and hergroup of intimate friends also "went Dutch" to evening performanceswhenever it was possible. Their conversation was spattered withtheatrical terms, and when, as occasionally happened, a real actress oreven a chorus girl from the Tivoli joined their group, Emeline couldhardly contain her eagerness and her admiration. She loved, when rarechance offered, to go behind the scenes; she frankly envied theegotistic, ambitious young theatrical beginners, so eager to talk ofthemselves and their talents, to discuss every detail from grease paintto management. To poor hungry Emeline it was like a revelation ofanother, brighter world.

　　She would loiter out from the brief enchantment of "Two True Hearts"into the foggy dampness of Market Street, at twilight, eagerly graspingthe suggestion of ice-cream sodas, because it meant a few minutes morewith her friends. Perhaps, sipping the frothy confection, Emeline wouldsee some of the young actresses going by, just from the theatre,buttoned into long coats, their faces still rosy from cold cream; theymust rush off for a light dinner, and be back at the theatre at seven.At the sight of them a pang always shot through Emeline, an exquisiteagony of jealousy seized her. Oh, to be so busy, so full of affairs, tomove constantly from one place to another—now dragging a spangled gown,now gay as a peasant, now gaudily dressed as a page!

　　Emeline would finish her soda in silence, lift the over-dressed Juliafrom her chair, and start soberly for home. Julia's short little legsached from the quick walk, yet she hated as much as her mother theplunge from brightly lighted O'Farrell Street into their own hall, solarge and damp and dark, so odorous of stale beer and rubber floorcovering. A dim point of gas in a red shade covered with symmetricalglass blisters usually burned over the stairway, but the Pages'apartment was dark, except for a dull reflected light from the street.Perhaps Julia and her mother would find George there, with his coat andshoes off, and his big body flung down across the bed, asleep. Georgewould wake up slowly, with much yawning and grumbling, Emeline would addher gloves and belt to the unspeakable confusion of the bureau, andJulia would flatten her tired little back against the curve of anarmchair and follow with heavy, brilliant eyes the argument that alwaysfollowed.

　　"Well, we could get some chops—chops and potatoes—and a can of corn,"Emeline would grudgingly admit, as she tore off her tight corsets with agreat gasp of relief, and slipped into her kimono, "or you could getsome spaghetti and some mangoes at the delicatessen—"

　　"Oh, God, cut out the delicatessen stuff!" George invariably said; "mefor the chops, huh, Julie?"

　　"Or—we could all go somewhere," Emeline might submit tentatively.

　　"Nit," George would answer. "Come on, Ju, we'll go buy a steak!"

　　But he was not very well pleased with his dinner, even when he had hisown way. When he and Julia returned with their purchases Emelineinvariably met them at the top of the stairs.

　　"We need butter, George, I forgot to tell you—you'll have to go back!"she would say. Julia, tired almost beyond endurance, still preferred togo with her father.

　　There was not enough gas heat under Emeline's frying pan to cook a steakwell; George growled as he cut it. Emeline jumped up for forgotten tablefurnishings; grease splashed on the rumpled cloth. After the one coursethe head of the house would look about hungrily.

　　"No cheese in the house, I suppose?"

　　"No—I don't believe there is."

　　"What's the chances on a salad?"

　　"Oh, no, George—that takes lettuce, you know. My goodness!" And Emelinewould put her elbows on the table and yawn, the rouge showing on herhigh cheek bones, her eyes glittering, her dark hair still pressed downwhere her hat had lain. "My goodness!" she would exclaim impatiently,"haven't you had enough, George? You had steak, and potatoes, andcorn—why don't you eat your corn?"

　　"What's the chances on a cup of tea?" George might ask, seizing a halfslice of bread, and doubling an ounce of butter into it, with his greatthumb on the blade of his knife.

　　"You can have all the tea you want, but you'll have to use condensedmilk!"

　　At this George would say "Damn!" and take himself and his evening paperto the armchair in the front window. When Emeline would go in, after acursory disposition of the dishes, she would find Julia curled in hisarms, and George sourly staring over the little silky head.

　　"It's up to you, and it's your job, and it makes me damn sick to comehome to such a dirty pen as this!" George sometimes burst out. "Look atthat—and look at that—look at that mantel!"

　　"Well—well—well!" Emeline would answer sharply, putting the mantelstraight, or commencing to do so with a sort of lazy scorn. "I can't doeverything!"

　　"Other men go home to decent dinners," George would pursue sullenly;"their wives aren't so darn lazy and selfish—"

　　Such a start as this always led to a bitter quarrel, after whichEmeline, trembling with anger, would clear a corner of the cluttereddrawing-room table and take out a shabby pack of cards for solitaire,and George would put Julia to bed. All her life Julia Page rememberedthese scenes and these bedtimes.

　　Her father sometimes tore the tumbled bed apart, and made it up again,smoothing the limp sheets with clumsy fingers, and talking to Julia,while he worked, of little girls who had brothers and sisters, and wholived in the country, and hung their stockings up on Christmas Eve.Emeline pretended not to notice either father or daughter at thesetimes, although she could have whisked Julia into bed in half the timeit took George to do it, and was really very kind to the child whenGeorge was not there.

　　When George asked the little girl to find her hairbrush, and blunderedover the buttons of her nightgown, Emeline hummed a sprightly air. Shenever bore resentment long.

　　"What say we go out later and get something to eat, George?" she wouldask, when George tiptoed out of the bedroom and shut the folding doorbehind him. But several hours of discomfort were not to be so lightlydismissed by George.

　　"Maybe," he would briefly answer. And invariably he presently mutteredsomething about asking "Cass" for the time, and so went down to thesaloon of "J. Cassidy," just underneath his own residence.

　　Emeline, alone, would brood resentfully over her cards. That was the wayof it: men could run off to saloons, while she, pretty and young, andwith the love of life still strong in her veins, might as well be deadand buried! Bored and lonely, she would creep into bed beside Julia,after turning the front-room light down to a bead, and flinging over the"bed lounge," upon which George spent the night, the musty sheets andblankets and the big soggy pillows.

　　But George, meanwhile, would have found warmth, brightness,companionship, and good food. The drink that was his passport to allthese good things was the least of them in his eyes. George did not careparticularly for drink, but he usually came home the worse for it onthese occasions, and Emeline had a real foundation for her furiousharangues in the morning. She would scold while she carried him in hotcoffee or chopped ice, scold while she crimped her hair and covered herface with a liquid bleach, scold as she jerked Julia's little bonnet onthe child's lovely mane, and depart, with a final burst of scolding anda bang of the door.

　　One day Emeline came in to find George at home, ill. She had saidgood-bye to him only the day before, for what was supposedly a week, andwas really concerned to find him back so soon, shivering and mumbling,and apparently unable to get into bed. Emeline sent Julia flying to aneighbour, made George as comfortable as she could in the big bed, andlistened, with a conviction as firm as his own, to what he believed tobe parting instructions and messages.

　　"I'm going, Em," said George heavily. "I'm worse now than I was when Istarted for home. I wanted to see you again, baby girl, and Julia, too.I—I can't breathe——"

　　Julia presently came flying in with a doctor and with a neighbour, Mrs.Cotter, who had telephoned to him. The doctor said that George had asharp touch of influenza, and Emeline settled down to nurse him.

　　George was a bad patient. He had a great many needs, and he mentionedone after another in the weighty, serious tone of a person impartingvaluable information.

　　"Ice—ice," said George, moving hot eyes to meet his wife's glance asshe came in. "And take that extra blanket off, Emeline, and—no hurry,but I'll try the soup again whenever you say—I seem to feel weak. Imust have more air, dear. Help me sit up, Em, and you can shake thesepillows up again. I think I'm a good deal sicker man than Allan has anyidea——"

　　Emeline got very tired of it, especially as George was much better onthe third day, and could sit up. He developed a stiff neck, which madehim very irritable, and even Julia "got on his nerves" and was banishedfor the day to the company of the cheerful Jewish family who lived on anupper floor. He sat in an armchair, wrapped in blankets, his rigid gazeroving a pitifully restricted perspective of street outside the window,an elaborate cough occasionally racking him.

　　Emeline had gotten a fairly tempting dinner under way. She could cooksome things well, and at five o'clock she came in from the kitchen withan appetizing tray.

　　"Gosh, is it dinner time?" asked George.

　　"After five," Emeline said, flitting about the bed-room. Julia had comehome now, sweet and tired, and was silently eating slice after slice ofbread and jelly. Emeline opened out the bed lounge, spread sheets andblankets smoothly, and flung a clean little nightgown for Julia acrossthe foot. Darkness had fallen outside; she lighted the gas and drew theshades.

　　"This is comfortable!" said George. "I wouldn't mind being sick now andthen at this rate! Come over here and undress near Pop, Julie. I'll tellyou what, Em—you call down the air shaft to Cass, and tell him to sendHenny up to make us a nice little coal fire here. I'll give Henny aquarter."

　　"She's gone into the bathroom to fix her hair and wash her face," Juliaobserved, as Emeline did not answer. A second later the child jumped upto answer a sharp knock on the door.

　　To George's disgust it was Emeline's friend, Mrs. Marvin Povey, who camein. Mrs. Povey was a tightly corseted, coarse-voiced, highly colouredlittle blonde, breathless now from running upstairs. Her sister, MyrtleMontague, was an ingenue in the little stock company at the CentralTheatre, and Mrs. Povey kept house for her and Mr. Povey, who spent allhis waking hours at the racetrack. The Poveys' flat was only a blockaway from the Pages'.

　　George was furious to have this woman, whom he particularly detested,come in upon him thus informally, and find him at so great adisadvantage. His neck was better, but he could not move it very easilystill; he was trapped here in blankets like a baby; he was acutelyconscious of his three days' beard, of Julia's bed made up in the middleof the drawing-room, and of Julia's self, partly disrobed, and runningabout in the general disorder.

　　"Well, how does the other feller look?" said Mrs. Povey, laughinggood-naturedly. "You look like you'd broke out of San Quentin, George,with that face! Hello, darlin'," she added, waylaying Julia. "When areyou going to come and be Aunt Mame's girl, huh? Going to come home withme to-night?"

　　"Em!" bellowed George, with only a sickly smile for the guest. "Em!"

　　"My God, what is it now?" said Emeline sweetly, popping in her head."Oh, hello, Mame!" she added, coming in. "Where's the rest of thegirls?"

　　"They've all blew up to the house with Myrt," said Mrs. Povey, staringblankly at Emeline. "But say, ain't you going, dear?"

　　"Wait till I get my dress on, and we'll talk it over while I hook up,"Emeline said, disappearing again. She did not glance at George.

　　"Myrt's in a new show, and a few of us girls are going to see that shegets a hand," Mrs. Povey said. "We're going to have supper at my house.Mary will have some of the boys there."

　　"I guess Emeline will have to wait till the next time," George saidcoldly. "She wouldn't get much pleasure out of it, leaving me here assick as I am!"

　　"Oh, I don't know!" Mrs. Povey half sang, half laughed. "Emeline likes agood time, like all the rest of us, George, and it don't do to keep apretty girl shut up all the time!"

　　"Shut up? She's never here," George growled.

　　"Well, we'll see!" Mrs. Povey hummed contentedly. A moment later Emelinecame in, wrenching the hooks of her best gown together. She had her haton, and looked excited and resolute.

　　"I forgot I'd promised to go out with the girls, George," she began."You don't care, do you? You've had your supper, and all Julia's got todo is get into bed."

　　George looked balefully from one to the other. Mrs. Povey chanced aquick little wink of approval and encouragement at Emeline, and he sawit.

　　"A lot you forgot!" he said harshly to his wife. "You've been gettingready for the last hour. Don't either of you think that you're foolingme—I see through it! I could lay here and die, and a lot you'd care!You forgot—ha!"

　　The blood rushed instantly to Emeline's face, she turned upon him herugliest look, and the hand with which she was buttoning her glovetrembled.

　　"Now, I'll tell you something, Mr. George Page!" said she, in an intenseand passionate tone, "there are things I'd rather do than set aroundthis house and hear you tell how sick you are! You think I'm a whitechip in this family, but let me tell you something—there's plenty oflovely friends I got who think I'm a fool to keep it up! I had an offerto go on the stage, not a month ago, from a manager who didn't even knowI was married; didn't I, Mame? And if it wasn't for Julie there——"

　　"You've not got anything on me, Em," George said, breathing hard, hisface blood red with anger. "Do you think that if it wasn't for this kid,I'd——"

　　"Oh, folks—folks!" Mrs. Povey said, really concerned.

　　"Well, I don't care!" Emeline said, panting. She crossed the floor,still panting, kissed Julia, and swept from the room. Mrs. Povey,murmuring some confused farewell, followed her.

　　Julia climbed out of her big chair. Like all children, she wasfrightened by loud voices and domestic scenes; she was glad now that thequarrel was over, and anxious, in a small girl's fashion, to blot therecent unpleasantness from her father's mind.

　　She sat on his knee and talked to him, she sang, she patted his soreneck with sleek, dirty little fingers. And finally she won him. Georgelaughed, and entered into her mood. He thought her a very smart littlegirl, as indeed she was. She had a precocious knowledge of the affairsof her mother's friends, sordid affairs enough, and more sordid thanever when retailed by a child's fresh mouth. Julia talked of moneytrouble, of divorce, of dressmaker's bills, of diseases; she repeatedinsolent things that had been said to her in the street, and herinsolent replies; her rich, delicious laugh broke out over the memory ofthe "drunk" that had been thrown out of Cassidy's.

　　George laughed at it all; it sounded very funny to him, coming from thisvery small person, with her round, serious eyes, and her mop of gold. Heasked her what she wanted him to bring her next time he came home, andJulia said black boots with white tops and tassels, and made him laughagain.

　　Thus early did Julia act as a mediator between her parents, but of thisparticular occasion she had no recollection, nor of much that followedit. Had she been a few years older she might really have affected alasting reconciliation between them, for all that was best in Georgemade him love his daughter, and Emeline was intensely proud of thechild. As it was, Julia was too young. She might unconsciously be themeans of reuniting them now and then, but she could not at all grasp thesituation, and when she was not quite seven a decree of divorce, on theground of desertion, set both Emeline and George free, after eight yearsof married life.

　　Emeline was too frightened at the enormity of the thing to be eitherglad or sorry. She had never meant to go so far. She had threatenedGeorge with divorce just as George had threatened her, in the heat ofanger, practically since her wedding day. But the emotion that finallydrove Emeline to a lawyer was not anger, it was just dull rebellionagainst the gray, monotonous level of her days. She was alone whenGeorge was away on trips; she was not less alone when he was in town. Hehad formed the habit of joining "the boys" in the evening; he was surlyand noncommittal with his wife, but Julia, hanging about the lower halldoor or playing with children in the street, always heard a burst oflaughter as he joined his friends; everybody in the world—exceptEmeline—liked George!

　　Poor Emeline—she could easily have held him! A little tenderness towardhim, a little interest in her home and her child, and George would havebeen won again. Had he but once come home to a contented wife and aclean house, George's wavering affection would have been regained. ButEmeline was a loud-mouthed, assertive woman now, noisily set upon herown way, and filled with a sense of her own wrongs. She had discussedGeorge too often with her friends to feel any possible interest in himexcept as a means of procuring sympathy. George bored her now; as amatter of fact, Emeline had almost decided that she would prefer alimonyto George.

　　Goaded on by Mrs. Povey, and a young Mrs. Sunius, affectionately knownas Maybelle, Emeline went to see a lawyer. The lawyer surprised her byhis considerate brevity. Getting a divorce was a very simple affair,much better done than not. There were ways to make a man pay his alimonyregularly, and the little girl would stay with her mother, of course; ather age no other solution was possible. Emeline felt that she must knowhow much expense she would be put to, and was gratified to find that itwould cost her not more than fifty dollars. The lawyer asked her howsoon she could get hold of her husband.

　　"Why, he'll let me know as soon as he's in town," Emeline said vaguely;"he'll come home."

　　"Come home, eh?" said the lawyer, with a shrewd look. "He knows yourintentions, of course?"

　　"He ought to!" said Emeline with spirit, and she began again: "I don'tthink there's a person in the world could say that I'm not a good wife,Mr. Knowles! I never so much as looked at another man—I swear to God Inever did! And there's no other man in the case. If I can have mydolling little girl, and just live quiet, with a few friends near me,that's all I ask! If Mr. Page had his way, I'd never put foot out ofdoors; but mind you, he'd be off with the boys every night. And thatmeans drink, you know—"

　　"Well, well," the young lawyer said soothingly, "I guess you've beentreated pretty mean, all right."

　　Emeline went home to find—somewhat to her embarrassment—that Georgehad come in, and was in his happiest mood, and playing with Julia. Juliahad somehow lost her babyish beauty now; she was thin and lanky, fourteeth were missing, and even her glorious mop of hair seemed what hermother called "slinky."

　　"I landed the Fox order right over Colton's head!" said George.

　　Emeline said: "I wish to the Lord you'd quit opening that window,leaving the wind blow through here like a cave!"

　　"Well, the place smelled like a Jap's room!" George retorted, instantlyaggressive.

　　"We're going to the Park!" Julia chanted.

　　"How d'ye mean you're going to the Park?" Emeline asked, as she slammeddown the offending window.

　　"Well, I thought maybe I'd take her there; kinder fun walking round andseeing things, what?" George submitted.

　　Emeline shrugged. "I don't care what you do!"

　　She sat down before a dresser with a triple mirror, which had latelybeen added to the bedroom furniture, and began to ruffle the coarsepuffs of her black hair with slim, ringed fingers.

　　"You've got something better to do, of course!" George said.

　　"Don't go to a matinee, Mother!" said Julia, coming to lean coaxinglyagainst her mother's arm. Emeline looked down at the pale, intelligentlittle face, and gave the child a sudden kiss.

　　"Mama isn't going to a matinee, doll baby. But papa ain't as crazy forher to go to the Park as you are!" she said, with an oblique andchallenging glance at George.

　　"Oh, come on!" George urged impatiently. "Only don't wear that rottenhat," he added. "It don't look like a respectable woman!"

　　Emeline's expression did not change, but fury seethed within her.

　　"Don't wait for me," she said levelly. "I'm not going."

　　"Well, put the kid's hat on then," George suggested, settling his ownwith some care at the mantel mirror.

　　"Get your hand-embroidered dress out of your drawer, Julia," said hermother, "and the hat Aunt Maybelle gave you!"

　　"I'm going to Cass's to telephone, and I need some cigarettes," Georgeannounced from the door. "I'll be back in five minutes for Julie."

　　"Don't forget to get a drink while you're in Cass's," Emeline remindedhim, as she flung an embroidered dress over Julia's limp little draggledpetticoats. George's answer was a violent slamming of the hall door.

　　Julia's little face was radiant as her mother tied on a soiled whitestraw bonnet covered with roses, and put a cologne-soaked handkerchiefinto the pocket of her blue velvet coat. The little girl did not havemany pleasures; there were very few children in the neighbourhood, andJulia was not very strong; she easily caught colds in dark O'FarrellStreet, or in the draughty hall. All winter long she had been hangingover the coal fire in the front room, or leaning against the windowwatching the busy street below—but today was spring! Sunlight glorifiedeven the dreary aspect from the windows above "J. Cassidy's" saloon, andthe glorious singing freshness of the breeze, the heavenly warmth of theblue air, had reached Julia's little heart.

　　When she was quite dressed, and was standing at the window patientlywatching for her father, Emeline came and stood beside her.

　　"I'll tell you what!" said Emeline suddenly. "I'll go, too! It's toogrand to be indoors today; we'll just go out to the Park and take in thewhole show! And then perhaps papa'll take us somewhere to dinner!"

　　She began swiftly to dress, pinning on a hat that George liked, andworking on long gray kid gloves as a complement to a gray gown. Then shecame to stand behind Julia again, and both watched the street.

　　"I guess he's waiting for his change?" suggested Julia, and Emelinelaughed.

　　"We'll walk over and take the Geary Street car," said she. "We'll goright to the fountain, and get dummy seats. And we could have dinner atthe Poodle Dog—"

　　"Here he comes!" Julia cried. And indeed George was to be seen for amoment, between two friends, standing on the corner.

　　A long wait ensued. Then steps came up the stairs. Emeline, followed byJulia, went to the door. It was not George, but a note from George,delivered by Henny, of Cassidy's saloon.

　　"Dear Em," Emeline read, "a couple of the fellows want me to go toEmeryville, have dinner at Tony's, and sit in a little game afterward.Tell Julie I will take her to the Park to-morrow—and buy her anythingshe wants. George."

　　"Thanks, Henny," Emeline said, without visible emotion. But Julia's lipquivered, and she burst into bitter crying. Six-years-old knows notomorrows, and Julia tasted the bitterness of despair. She criedquietly, her little body screwed into a big armchair, her face hidden inthe crook of a thin little arm. Emeline stood it as long as she could,then she slapped and shook Julia to stop her, and Julia strangled andshrieked hysterically.

　　Peace was presently restored, and Julia was asked if she would like togo see her Auntie Mame, and assented with a hiccough. So her mottledlittle face was wiped with a soggy gray towel, and her bonnetstraightened, and they set out.

　　Mrs. Povey was so sympathetic that Emeline stayed with her for dinner, acasual meal which Myrtle Montague and a sister actress came in to share.Julia sat with them at table, and stuffed solemnly on fresh bread andcheese, crab salad and smoked beef, hot tomato sauce and deliciouscoffee. The coffee came to table in a battered tin pot, and the creamwas poured into the cups from the little dairy bottle, with its metaltop, but Julia saw these things as little as any one else—as little asshe saw the disorderly welter of theatrical effects in the Poveys'neglected rooms, the paint on the women's faces, the ugly violence andcoarseness of their talk.

　　But she did see that they were an impulsive, warm-hearted, generous set.Nobody ever spoke crossly to her, she was given the freedom of theirrooms, she listened to their chatter, she was often caught up forembraces heavy with cologne; they loved to dress her up in preposterouscostumes, and shouted with laughter at the sight of her in Dolly Vardenbonnets, Scotch kilts, or spectacles and wigs. "Baby doll," "Lovey," and"Honey Babe" were Julia's names here, and she was a child hungry forlove and eager to earn it. To-night she ate her supper in that silenceso grateful to grown people, and afterward found some stage jewelleryand played with it until her head was too heavy to hold up any longer.Then she went to sleep upon an odorous couch piled deep with all sortsof odd garments, her feet thrust into a tangle of lifeless satinpillows, her head upon the fur lining of some old cape, a banjo proddingher uncomfortably whenever she stirred.

　　Julia—all pins and needles—was presently jerked up into a glare oflights, and tied into the rose-crowned bonnet, and buttoned into thevelvet coat again. She had not been covered as she slept, and sneezedand shivered in the cold night air. Emeline walked along briskly, andJulia stumbled beside her. The child was in such an agony of fatigue andchill that every separate step toward bed was dreaded by this time. Shefell against her mother, as Emeline tore off shoes and stockings,stretched blundering, blind little arms for her nightgown sleeves, andsank deliciously against her pillows, already more than half asleep.

　　But Emeline sat wide eyed, silent, waiting for George.

　　George did not come home at all that night. On the nextafternoon—Sunday afternoon—Julia was playing in the street with twoother small girls. Their game was simple. The three huddled into thedeep doorway that led to Julia's home, clinging tight to each other,laughing and shouting. Then at a given signal they rushed screamingforth, charged across the street as if pursued by a thousand furies, andtook shelter in a similar doorway, next to the saloon across the street.This performance had been repeated, back and forth, perhaps a dozentimes, when Julia found her father waylaying her.

　　"Where y' going?" asked Julia, noticing that he carried a hand bag.

　　George sat down on the dirty cement steps that connected his dwellingwith the sidewalk, and drew Julia between his knees.

　　"I've got to go away, baby," said he soberly.

　　"And ain't choo going to take me to the Park—never?" asked Julia, witha trembling lip.

　　George freed a lock of her hair that had gotten caught in her collar,with clumsy, gentle fingers.

　　"Mama's mad at me, and I'm going away for a while, Babe," said he,clearing his throat. "But you be a good girl, and I'll come take you tothe Park some day."

　　Something in the gravity of his tone impressed Julia.

　　"But I don't want you to go away," she said tearfully. George got uphastily.

　　"Come on, walk with Pop to the car," he commanded, and Julia trottedcontentedly beside him to Market Street. There she gave him a child'ssoft, impersonal kiss, staring up at the buildings opposite as she didso. George jumped on a cable car, wedged his bag under his knees as hetook a seat on the dummy, and looked back at the little figure that wasmoving toward the dingy opening of O'Farrell Street, and at the springsunshine, bright on the child's hair.