PART ONE - CHAPTER V

by Kathleen Norris

　　Days of very serious thinking followed this experience. The face of theworld was changed. Much that had been unnoticed, or taken for granted,became insufferable to Julia now. She winced at Connie's stories, shelooked with a coldly critical eye at Mrs. Tarbury's gray hair showingthrough a yellow "front"; the sights and sounds of the boarding-housesickened her. She was accustomed to helping Mrs. Tarbury with thehousework, not in any sense as payment for her board—for never washospitality more generously extended—but merely because she was there,and idle, and energetic; but she found this a real hardship now. Thehot, close bedrooms, odorous of perfume and cigarette smoke, the grayishsheets and thin blankets were odious to her; she longed to set fire tothe whole, and start afresh, with clean new furnishings.

　　Presently Connie asked her if she would care to talk to a manager aboutgoing on an "eleven weeks' circuit," as assistant to a sleight-of-handperformer.

　　"Twenty a week," said Connie, "and a whole week in Sacramento andanother in Los Angeles. All you have to do is wear a little suit like apage, and hand him things. Rose says he looks like an old devil—Ihaven't seen him, but you can sit on him easy enough. And the Nevillesare making the same trip, and she's a real nice woman. Not much, Ju, butit's a start, and I think we could land it for you."

　　"Yes, I know," Julia said vaguely.

　　"Well, wake up!" said Connie briskly. "Do you want it?"

　　"I'd rather wait until Mama gets here," the younger girl decideduncomfortably. And that afternoon, in vague hope of news of her mother,she took a Mission Street car and went out to call on her grandmother.

　　As usual, old Mrs. Cox's cheap little house reeked of soapsuds andcarbolic acid. Julia, admitted after she had twisted the little gong setin the panels of the street door, kissed her grandmother in a stiflingdark hall. Mrs. Cox was glad of company, she limped ahead into herlittle kitchen, chattering eagerly of her rheumatism and of familymatters. She told Julia that May's children, Evelyn and Marguerite, werewith her, Marguerite holding a position as dipper in a nearby candyfactory, and Evelyn checking in an immense steam laundry.

　　"How many children has Aunt May now?" Julia asked, sighing.

　　"She's got too many!" Mrs. Cox said sharply. "A feller like Ed, whonever keeps a position two weeks running, has got no business to raisesuch a family! For a while May had two of the boys in a home—"

　　"Oh, really!" said Julia, distressed.

　　"Lloyd and Elmer—yes, but they're home again now," the old womanpursued. "May felt dreadful when they went, but I guess she wasn't soawfully glad to get them back. Boys make a lot of work."

　　"Elmer and Lloyd, and then there was Muriel, and another baby?" Juliaasked.

　　"Muriel and Geraldine, and then the baby, Regina."

　　"Has Aunt May seven children?" Julia asked, awed.

　　Mrs. Cox delayed the brewing of a pot of tea while she counted them witha bony knotted hand. Then she nodded. Julia digested the fact infrowning silence.

　　"Grandma," said she presently, "did you ever have enough money?"

　　Mrs. Cox, now drinking her tea from a saucer, smiled toothlessly.

　　"Oh, sure," said she, with a cackle of laughter, "Why, there's nobodyknows it, but I'm rich!" But immediately the sorry joke lost flavour.The old woman sighed, and into her wrinkled face and filmed eyes therecame her usual look of patient and unintelligent endurance. "I've neveryet had a dollar that didn't have to do two dollars' work," said she,suddenly, in a mighty voice, staring across the kitchen, and lifting onehand as if she were taking an oath. "I've never laid down at night whenI wasn't so tired my back was splitting. I've never had no thanks and noease—the sixty years of my life! There's some people meant to be rich,Julia, and some that'll be poor the longest day of their lives, andthat's all there is to it!"

　　"I know—but it don't seem fair," Julia mused. She presently went on anerrand for her grandmother, and came back with sausages and fresh pulpybread and large spongy crullers from the grocery. By this time the windysummer twilight was closing in, and the homegoing labourers and factoryhands were filing home through the dirty streets. Julia found her twocousins in the lamp-lighted kitchen, Evelyn rather heavy and coarselooking, Marguerite reedy and thin, both wearing an unwholesome pallor.They made a little event of her coming, and the three girls chattedgayly enough throughout the meal, which was eaten at the kitchen tableand washed down with strong tea.

　　Julia's grandfather, a gnarled old man in a labourer's rough clothes,who reeked of whiskey, mumbled his meal in silence, and afterward wentinto the room known as the parlour, snarling as he went that some onemust come in and light his lamp. Julia went in with Evelyn to the ratherpitiful room: a red rug was on the floor, and there were two chairs anda cheap little table, besides the big chair in which the old man settledhimself.

　　"Ain't he going out, Grandma?" said Evelyn, returning to the kitchen,and exchanging a rueful look with Marguerite.

　　"Well, I thought he was!" Mrs. Cox made a pilgrimage to the parlourdoor, and returned confident. "He'll go out!" she said reassuringly.

　　"Comp'ny coming?" Julia asked smilingly. The other girls giggled andlooked at each other.

　　"Well, why couldn't Grandpa sit in the kitchen?" the girl asked."There's a better light out here!"

　　"Catch him doing anything decent," Evelyn said, and Marguerite added:"And, Ju, he'll sit there sometimes just to be mean, and he'll take hisshoes off, and put his socks up——"

　　"And nights he knows we want the parlour he'll stay in on purpose,"Evelyn supplemented eagerly.

　　"I wouldn't stand for it," Julia asserted.

　　"Pa's awfully cranky," Mrs. Cox said resignedly. "He's always been thatway! You cook him corn beef—that's the night he wanted pork chops;sometimes he'll snap your head off if you speak, and others he'll askyou why you sit around like a mute and don't talk. Sometimes, if you askhim for money, he'll put his hand in his pocket real willing, and othertimes for weeks he won't give you a cent!"

　　"I wouldn't put up with it," said Julia again. "What does he do with hismoney?"

　　"Oh, he treats the boys, and sometimes, when he's drunk, they'll borrowit off him," said his wife. "Pa's always open-handed with the boys!"

　　Evelyn, who had washed her coarse, handsome face at the kitchen sink,began now to arrange her hair with a small comb that had been wedgedinto the sinkboard. Marguerite, having completed similar operations,offered to walk with Julia to the Mission Street car.

　　"The worst of Grandpa is this," said Marguerite, on the way, and Juliaglancing sideways under a street lamp surprised an earnest and mostwinning expression on her cousin's plain, pale face, "he don't giveGrandma any money, d'you see?—and that means that Ev and I have to giveher pretty much what we get, and so we can't help Mamma, and that makesme awfully blue."

　　"But—but Uncle Ed's working, Rita?"

　　"Pop works when he can, Ju. Work isn't ever very steady in his line, youknow. But he don't drink any more, Mamma says, only—there's fivechildren younger'n we are, you know—"

　　"Sure," said Julia, heavy oppressed. But Marguerite was cheered at thispoint by encountering two pimply and embarrassed youths, and Julia,climbing a moment later into a Mission Street car, looked back to seeher cousin walking off between the two masculine forms, and heard theirloud laughter ring upon the night.

　　About ten days later, unannounced, Emeline came home, and with her camea stout, red-faced, grayhaired man, in whom Julia was aghast to find herfather. They reached Mrs. Tarbury's at about four o'clock in theafternoon, and Julia, coming in from a call on a theatrical manager,found them in the dining-room. George had been very ill, and movedponderously and slowly. He looked far older than Julia's memory of him.There were sagging red pockets under his eyes, and his heavy jowls weredarkened with a day's growth of gray stubble. He and Emeline had had acomplete reconciliation, and entertained Mrs. Tarbury with the historyof their remarriage and an outline of their plans.

　　George took a heavy, sportive interest in his pretty girl, but Juliacould not realize their relationship sufficiently to permit of anyliberties. She smiled an uneasy, perfunctory smile when George kissedher, and moved away from the arm he would have kept about her.

　　"Don't liked to be kissed?" asked George.

　　"Oh, I don't mind," said Julia, in a lifeless voice, and with avertedeyes. "Did you go to the flat, Mama?" she asked, clearing her throat.

　　"I did," Emeline answered, biting a loose thread from a finger of herdirty white gloves. "I got Toomey's rent, and told them that we mightwant the room on the first."

　　"Going to give up the flat?" Julia asked, in surprise.

　　"Well"—Emeline glanced at her husband—"it's this way, Ju," said she:"Papa can't stand the city, sick as he is now—"

　　George coughed loosely in confirmation of this, and shook his head.

　　"And Papa's got a half interest in a little fruit ranch down in SantaClara Valley," Emeline pursued. "So I'm going to take him down there fora little while, and nurse him back to real good health."

　　"My God, Em, you'll die!" Mrs. Tarbury said frankly. "Why'n't you gosomewhere where there's something doing?"

　　"My sporting days are over, Min," George said with mournfulsatisfaction. "No more midnight suppers in mine!"

　　"Nor mine, either. I guess I'm old enough to settle down," Emeline addedcheerfully. She and Mrs. Tarbury exchanged a look, and Julia knewexactly what concessions her mother had made before the reconciliation;knew just how sincere this unworldly wifely devotion was.

　　"Doc says I am to have fresh air, and light, nourishing foods, and quietnights," George explained, gravely important.

　　"And what about Julie?" asked Mrs. Tarbury.

　　"Well, we thought we'd leave Julie here, Min," Emeline begancomfortably, "until we see if it works. Then in, say, a month—"

　　"Mama, you can't!" Julia interrupted, cheeks hot with shame. "Aunt Min'sgot to rent that room—"

　　"You see how it is, Em," the lady of the house explained regretfully:"Connie's gone off on the road now, and Rose Ransome's gone to VirginiaCity, and there's a party and wife that'll give me twenty a month forthe room. And as it happens I'm full up now, Em—"

　　"Well, of course we'll pay—" George was beginning, somewhat haughtily,but Emeline, who had grown rather red, interrupted:

　　"It don't make the slightest difference," she said, with spirit. "Iguess I'm the last woman in the world to want my child to stay where sheisn't welcome!"

　　"It ain't that at all, Em," Mrs. Tarbury threw in pacifically, butEmeline was well launched now.

　　"If it hadn't been that George was all but passing away with kidneytrouble," Emeline said, her voice rising, "I never would of let such anarrangement go on for five minutes! But there was days when we neverknew from hour to hour that George wasn't dying, and what with havinghim moved and that woman holding up his clothes, and telling the doctorlies about me, I guess I had troubles enough without worrying aboutJulie. But I want to tell you right now, Min," said Emeline, with kindlysuperiority, "that this isn't the kind of a house I'm crazy about havingmy daughter in, anyway. It ain't you, so much—"

　　"Ha! that's good!" Mrs. Tarbury interpolated, with a sardonic laugh.

　　"But you know very well that such girls as Rosie and Con—" Emelinerushed on.

　　"Oh, my God, Em!" Mrs. Tarbury began in a low voice rich with feeling,but Julia took a hand.

　　"Don't be such a fool, Aunt Min!" she said, going over to sit on an armof Mrs. Tarbury's chair, and putting a caressing arm about hershoulders. "And cut it out, Mama! Aunt Min's been kinder to me than anyone else, and you know it—and I've felt pretty darn mean living hereday after day! And now I say if Aunt Min has a chance to rent herroom—"

　　"God knows you're welcome to that room as long as you'll stay, Julie,"Mrs. Tarbury said tremulously; "it's only—"

　　"If every one was as good to me as you are, Aunt Min!" Julia said,beginning to cry. Mrs. Tarbury burst into sobs, and they clung together.

　　"I never meant that you wasn't awfully good to her, Min," Emeline saidstiffly. Then her eyes watered, and she, too, began to cry, and gropedfor her handkerchief. "I'm just worn out with worrying and taking careof George, I guess," sobbed Emeline, laying her head on the arm sheflung across a nearby table.

　　"Don't cry, Mama!" Julia gulped, leaving Mrs. Tarbury's lap to come andpat her mother's shoulder. Emeline convulsively seized her, and theirwet cheeks touched.

　　"If any one ever says that I don't appreciate what you've done for meand mine," choked Emeline, "it's a lie!"

　　"Well, it didn't sound like you, Em," Mrs. Tarbury said, drying eyesbetween sniffs.

　　Emeline immediately went over and kissed her, and all three laughedshakily over a complete reconciliation, which was pleasingly interruptedby George's gallant offer to take the whole crowd to dinner, if theydidn't mind his eating only tea and toast.

　　Still, it was decided that Julia should not stay at Mrs. Tarbury's, butshould spend the next week or two with her grandmother in the Mission.Julia's quiet acceptance of this arrangement was both unexpected andpleasing to her parents.

　　But as a matter of fact the girl was rather dazed, at this time, toodeeply sunk in a miserable contemplation of her own affairs to beconscious of the immediate discomfort of the moment. She had dreamedmany a happy dream, as the years went by, of her father: had thought hewould claim her some day, be proud of her. She had fancied a little homecircle of which she would be the centre and star, spoiled alike byfather and mother. Dearer than any dream of a lover had been to Juliathis hope for days to come, when she should be a successful youngactress, with an adoring Daddy to be proud of her. Now the dream wasclouded; her father was an old man, self-absorbed; her mother—but Juliahad always known her mother to be both selfish and mercenary. More thanthis, her little visit in Sausalito had altered her whole viewpoint.Ignorant of life as she was, and bewildered by the revelations of thatvisit, she was still intelligent enough to feel an acute discontent withher old world, an agonizing longing for that better and cleaner andhigher existence. How to grasp at anything different from life as it waslived in her mother's home—in her grandmother's, in Mrs.Tarbury's—Julia had not the most remote idea. Until a few months agoshe had not known that she wanted anything different.

　　She brooded over the problem night and day; sometimes her hours ofgloomy introspection were interrupted by bursts of rebellious fury. Shewould not bear it, she would not be despised and obscure and ignorant,when, so close to her, there were girls of her own age to whom Fate hadbeen utterly kind; it was not her fault, and it was not right—it wasnot right to despise her for what she could not help! But usually herattitude was of passive if confused endurance.

　　Julia pored over the society columns of the Sunday papers, in thesedays, and when she came across the name of Barbara Toland or EnidHazzard, it was as if a blow had been struck at her heart. Barbara'sface, smiling out at her from a copy of the News Letter, made Juliawretched for a whole day, and the mere sight of the magazine thatcontained it was obnoxious to her for days to come. Walking with Mark,she saw in some Kearney Street window an enlarged photograph of a littleyacht cutting against a stiff breeze, and felt a rush of unwelcomememories suddenly assail her.

　　Mark was very much the devoted lover just now, but the contemplation ofmarriage with Mark never for a moment entered Julia's head. She hadreally liked him much better when he was only Hannah's big brother, whoignored all small girls in kindly, big-boy fashion. His adoring devotionembarrassed her, and his demand for a definite answer to his suggestionof marriage worried and perhaps a little frightened her.

　　One summer Sunday Mark asked her to go to the Park with him, and the twomade the trip on a Geary Street dummy front, and wandered through wide,sunny stretches of lawn and white roadway to the amphitheatre, whereseveral thousand persons of all ages and conditions were alreadylistening to the band. Benches were set in rows under a grove of youngmaple and locust trees, and Julia and Mark, sauntering well up to thefront, found seats, and settled themselves to listen.

　　Julia, enjoying the sunshine and the good hour, looked lazily at thecuriously variegated types about them: young men who lay almosthorizontally in their seats, their eyes shut, newspapers blowing abouttheir feet; toddling babies in Sunday white; young fathers and motherswith tiny coats laid across their laps; groups of middle-aged Teutonscritically alert, and, everywhere, lovers and lovers and lovers. Markwas pleasantly aware that his companion's beauty made her conspicuous,even though Julia was plainly, almost soberly, dressed to-day, andshowed none of her usual sparkle and flash. She wore a trim little gownof blue serge, with a tiny white ruffle about its high collar for itsonly relief, her gloves were black, her small hat black, and she wore norings, no chains, and no bangles, a startling innovation for Julia. Thechange in her appearance, and some more subtle change in face and voiceand manner, affected Mark like a strong wine.

　　"Do you know you're different from what you uster be, Julie?" he said,laying his arm about her shoulders, on the back of the bench, andsquaring about so that his handsome black eyes could devour her.

　　"Getting older, maybe," Julia smiled indifferently. "I'll be sixteen inno time, now!"

　　"My mother was only fifteen when she was married," Mark said, in a deepand shaken voice, yet with pride and laughter in his eyes. Julia flushedand looked at the toe of her shoe.

　　"Well, what about it—eh?" Mark pursued in an eager undertone. Julia wassilent. "What about it?" he said again.

　　"Why—why, I don't know," Julia stammered, uncomfortably, with a nervousand furtive glance about her; anywhere but at his face.

　　"Suppose I do know?" he urged, tightening a little the arm that layabouther. "Suppose I know for us both?"

　　Julia straightened herself suddenly, evading the encircling arm.

　　"Don't, Mark!" she pleaded, giving him a glimpse of wet blue eyes.

　　"I'm not teasing you, darling," he said tenderly. "I'm not going totease you! But you do love me, Julia?"

　　A silence, but she tightened the hold of the little glove that rested onhis free hand.

　　"Don't you, Julie?" he begged.

　　"Why—you know I do, Mark!" the girl said, and both began to laugh.

　　"But then what's the matter?" Mark asked, serious again.

　　"Well—" Julia looked all about her, and finally brought her troubledeyes to rest on his.

　　"Well, what, you darling?"

　　"Well, it's just this, Mark. I don't know whether I can get it over toyou." The girl interrupted herself for a little puzzled laugh. "I don'tknow that I can get it over to myself," she said. "But it's this: I feelas if I didn't know myself yet, d'ye see? I don't know what I want,myself, and of course I don't know what I want my husband to belike—d'ye see, Mark? I—I feel as if I didn't know anything—I don'tknow what's good and what's just common. I haven't read books, I haven'thad any one to tell me things, and show me things!" She turned to himeyes that he was amazed to see were brimming again. "My mother nevertold me about things," she burst out incoherently, "about how to talk,and taking baths—and not using cologne!"

　　Mark could not quite follow this argument, but he was quick withsoothing generalities.

　　"Aw, pshaw, Julie, as if you aren't about as good as they make 'em, justas you are! Why, I'm crazy about you—I'm crazy about the way you lookand about the way you act; you're good enough for me! Julie," his voicesank again, "Julie, won't you let me pick out a little flat somewheres?Pomeroy said I could have any one of the old squares for nothing; wecould get some rugs and chairs from the People's Easy Payment Company.Just you and me, Julie; what do you think?"

　　"I-I'd like to have a cute little house," said Julia, with a shakysmile.

　　"Sure you would! And a garden—"

　　"Oh, I'd love a little garden!" The girl smiled again.

　　"Well, then, why not, Julia?"

　　She looked at him obliquely.

　　"Suppose I stopped loving you, Mark?"

　　Mark gave a great laugh.

　　"Once I have you, Ju, I'll risk it!"

　　Child that she was, a glimpse of that complete possession stained hercheeks crimson.

　　"I have to go down to Mama in Santa Clara next week," she submittedawkwardly.

　　"Well, go down. But—how about New Year's, Julie? Will you marry methen?"

　　Julia got up, and they walked away across the soft green of the grass.

　　"I don't honestly know what I want to do, Mark," she said a littledrearily. "I'm not crazy to go to Santa Clara, and yet it's somethingawful—living at my grandmother's house! I'd like to kill mygrandfather, I know that. He's the meanest old man I ever saw. I supposeI could keep at Artheris for an engagement—he's awfully decent—but nowthat Rose and Connie have gone, I have to go round alone, and—it isn'tthat I'm afraid of anything, but I simply don't seem to care any more! Idon't believe I want to be an actress. Artheris offered me small partswith the Sacramento Star Stock, playing fourteen weeks and twenty plays,this winter, but I thought of getting up there, and having to hunt up aboarding-house—" Her voice sank indifferently. "I don't believe I'dtake anything less than ingenue," she added presently. "Florence Pittplayed ingenue in stock when she was only fifteen!"

　　"You could work up, Ju," Mark suggested, honestly anxious to console.

　　"Yes, the way Connie and Rose have!" the girl answered dryly. "Con'sbeen in the business six years and Rose nine!" Her eyes travelled theblue spaces of the summer sky. "I wish I could go to New York," she saidvaguely.

　　"They say New York is jam-packed with girls hanging round theatricalagencies," Mark submitted, to which Julia answered with a dispirited, "Iknow!"

　　George had promised to send five dollars each week to old Mrs. Cox forJulia's board, so that her stay in the Mission Street house wasagreeable for more than one reason, and her cousins understood perfectlythat Julia was to remain idle while they continued to beself-supporting. They had no room in their crowded lives for envy of theprettier and more fortunate Julia, but Julia vaguely envied them, seeingthem start off for work every morning, and joined by other girls andyoung men as they reached the corner. Evelyn and Marguerite had each anadmirer, and between the romance of their evenings and the thousandlittle episodes of the factory day, they seemed to find life cheerfulenough.

　　Julia tried, early in her stay, to make the room she shared with hercousins, and her grandmother's kitchen, a little more attractive. Butthe material to her hand was not very easily improved. In the barebedroom there was an iron bed, large enough to be fairly comfortable forthree tenants, two chairs, a washstand, and a chest of drawers thatwould not stand straight. The paper was light, and streaked with dirtand mould, and the bare wooden floor was strewn with paper candy bagsand crumpled programs from cheap theatres. There were no curtains at thetwo windows, and the blue-green roller shades were faded by the sun. Nota promising field for a reformer whose ideal was formed on a memory ofthe Tolands' guest room!

　　The kitchen was quite as bad; worse in the sense that while Julia mightdo as she pleased in the bedroom, her grandmother resented anyinterference in what old Mrs. Cox regarded as her own domain. The oldwoman found nothing amiss in the dirty newspapers that covered thetable, the tin of melting grease on the stove, the odds and ends of ragsand rope and clothespins and stockings that littered the chairs andfloor, the flies that walked on the ceiling and buzzed over the sugarbowl. Julia quite enraged her on that morning that she essayed to cleana certain wide shelf that, crowded to its last inch, hung over the sink.

　　"Do you need this, Grandma—can I throw this away?" the girl said overand over, displaying a nearly empty box of blacking, a moist bag tightlyrolled over perhaps a pound of sugar, a broken egg beater, a stoppedalarm clock, a bottle of toothache drops, a dog's old collar, a crackedsaucer with a cake of brown soap tightly adhering to it, a few driedonions, a broken comb, the two halves of a broken vase, and a score ofsimilarly assorted small articles.

　　"Jest don't meddle with 'em, Julia," Mrs. Cox said over and over againuneasily. "I'm going to give all that a thorough cleaning when I getaround to it!"

　　She was obviously relieved when Julia gave the whole thing up as a badjob, and went back to her aimless wandering about the house. Mrs. Coxnever went out except to church, but now and then Julia went down toMrs. Tarbury's and vaguely discussed the advisability of taking atheatrical engagement, exactly as if several very definite offers wereunder consideration.

　　Just at this time Julia's youngest uncle, Chester Cox, wrote his motherfrom the big prison at San Quentin that he was coming home. The letter,pencilled on two sheets of lined, grayish paper, caused a good deal ofdiscussion between Mrs. Cox, her husband, and her granddaughters.Chester, now about thirty years old, had been pardoned because of lateevidence in his favour, when a five-year term for burglary was but onequarter served, but in his old father's eyes a jailbird was a jailbird,and Chester was still in some mysterious way to blame. Mrs. Cox was onlyconcerned because the boy was ill and out of a job and apt to prove aburden, but the three girls, frankly curious about him, neverthelessreserved judgment. He had always been an idler, he had always been aweakling, but if he really were accused falsely, they could champion himstill.

　　The day he had set for his return was a Sunday, but he arrivedunexpectedly on the Saturday afternoon, to find great trouble in theMission Street house. Evelyn and Marguerite were free for the afternoon,and were in the kitchen with Julia and their grandmother. It had latelycome to Evelyn's ears that her grandfather had been borrowing money onthe little property, and old Mrs. Cox was beside herself with anger andfear. The house was her one hope against a destitute old age. She fairlywrithed at the contemplation of her husband's treachery in underminingthat one stay. While she was slaving and struggling, he had airilydisposed of three hundred dollars. She was stifled by the thought.

　　"He'd ought to be sent to jail for it!" the old woman said bitterly.

　　"You can't do it," Evelyn, the bearer of the badnews, assured herimpatiently.

　　"Well, he'll see what I can do, when he gets home!" Mrs. Cox muttered.Julia, distressed by the scene, laid her hand over her grandmother's oldknotted one, as she sat beside her at the table, but could find no wordswith which to comfort her. Her soul was sick with this fresh sordidrevelation; she felt as if she must scream in another minute ofexistence in this dreary, dirty house, with the glaring sunshinestreaming in the kitchen window and a high summer wind howling outside.

　　The talk was ended by a ring at the door, and Julia went through thedark, stifling passage to admit a lean, pale young man, with a roughgrowth of light hair on his sunken cheeks, and a curious look of notbelonging to his clothes.

　　"It's Uncle Chess, Grandma," said she, leading the way back to thekitchen. Mrs. Cox gave her youngest child a kiss, assuring him that shenever would have known him, he looked like a ghost, she said, andChester sat down and talked a little awkwardly to his mother and nieces.His voice was husky, full of apologetic cadences; he explainedpainstakingly the chance that had brought him home twenty-four hoursearly, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Julia,helping her grandmother with preparations for dinner, did not know whyshe found Chester's presence unendurably trying; she did not know thatit was pity that wrung her heart; she only wished he were not there.

　　An hour's talk cheered the newcomer amazingly, as perhaps did also thedinner odours of frying potatoes and bacon. He was venturing upon ahistory of his wrongs when a damper fell upon the little company withthe arrival of the man of the house. Her husband's return brought backin a flood to old Mrs. Cox's heart the memory of his outrageousnegotiations regarding the house; the three girls all cordially detestedthe old man and were silent and ungracious in his presence, and Chesterflushed deeply as his father came in, and became dumb.

　　Old Cox made no immediate acknowledgement of the newcomer's arrival, butgrunted as he jerked a chair to the table, indicating his readiness fordinner, and dinner was served with all speed. It was only when he haddrunk off half a cup of scalding strong tea that the man of the houseturned to his last born and said:

　　"So, you're out again?"

　　"I should never have been in!" Chester said, eagerly and huskily.

　　"Yes, I've heard lots of that kind of talk," the old man assured him."'Cording to what you hear there's a good many up there that never donenothing at all!"

　　Julia saw the son shrink, and a look of infinite wistfulness for amoment darkened his eyes. He was a stupid-looking, gentle-faced fellow,pitiable as a sick child.

　　"Perhaps you'll read these, Pa," he said, fumbling in his pockets for amoment before producing two or three short newspaper clippings from aninner coat pocket. "There—there's the truth of it; it's all there," hesaid eagerly. "'Cox will immediately be given his freedom—after sixteenmonths as an innocent victim of the law'—that's what it says!"

　　"I'll read nothin'," the old man said, sweeping back the slips with ascornful hand, his small, deep-set eyes blinking at his son like amonkey's.

　　"Well, all right, all right," Chester answered, his thin face burningagain, his voice hoarsely belligerent.

　　"That's the jestice you'll get from your father!" the old woman said,with a cackle. Julia gathered up the newspaper clippings.

　　"Aren't you mean, Grandpa!" she said, indignantly, beginning to read.

　　"Maybe I am, maybe I am," he retorted fiercely. "But you'll find there'sno smoke without some fire, my fine lady, and when a boy that's alwaysbeen a lazy, idle shame to his father and mother gets a taste of blame,you can depend that no newspaper is going to make a saint of him!"

　　"Grandma, don't let him talk that way!" Julia protested, her breastrising and falling. Chester turned to his father.

　　"Maybe if you'd a-give me a better chance," he said sullenly, "maybe ifus boys hadn't been kicked around so much, shoved into the first jobthat came handy, seeing Ma and the girls afraid to breathe while you wasin the house—"

　　Both men were now standing, their faces close together.

　　"Well, you ain't going to have another chance here!" the old manshouted. "I'll have no jailbirds settin' around here to be petted andbabied! Get that into your head! Don't you let me come into the houseand find you here again——"

　　"Pa!" protested Mrs. Cox, fired by the eyes of her granddaughters."Yes—an' 'Pa'!" he snarled, pulling on his old hat, and opening thekitchen door. "But it'll be Pa on the wrong side of your face if youmake any mistake about it! Jailbird!" he muttered to himself, with afinal slam at the door. The others looked at each other.

　　"That's a sweet welcome home," said Chester, with a bitter laugh. He wasstanding, his head lowered; there was bewilderment as well as anger inhis look.

　　"Pa's got to be a terrible crank," said Mrs. Cox, returning to herteapot, after a glance through the window at her retiring lord. "Hecarries on something terrible sometimes."

　　"Well, he won't carry on any longer as far as I am concerned!" Chestersaid, a little vaguely.

　　"I don't know what's got into Pa!" his wife complained.

　　"Don't you care, Uncle Chess," Marguerite submitted with timid sympathy.

　　"Oh, no, sure I don't care," the man said with a short laugh. "Of courseit's nothing to me! A man comes home to his own folks, he's had a toughtime—" His voice sank huskily. The sleeves of his coat were too shortfor him, and Julia noticed how thin his wrists were, as he gathered uphis newspaper clippings and restored them to his inside pocket. Thewomen watched him in silence. Presently he stooped down and kissed hismother's forehead, at the edge of her untidy, grizzled hair.

　　"Good-bye, Ma!" he said. "Good-bye, girls!"

　　"It'll be a judgment on your father," Mrs. Cox protested. "I don't knowwhat's gotten into him!"

　　But she made no further objection; she did not get up from her place attable when Chester crossed the kitchen, opened the street door, and wentout.

　　"Grandpa's a prince, all right!" said Marguerite then, and Evelyn added,"Wouldn't it give you a pain?"

　　"But I notice that none of us did anything about it!" Julia saidbitterly.

　　"If your grandpa found Chess here when he got home to-night, there'd bea reckoning!" the old woman asserted dully.

　　"And what is Uncle Chess supposed to do?" Julia demanded.

　　"I betcher he kills himself," Evelyn submitted.

　　"I betcher he does," her sister agreed.

　　"Well, it'll be on your grandfather's head!" the old woman said. Shebegan to cry, still drinking her tea.

　　"I wonder if he has any money?" speculated Julia.

　　"Where'd he get money?" Evelyn said. Julia, following an uncomfortableimpulse, went to the window in the close little parlour and looked outinto the street. It was about six o'clock, and still broad day. The windhad died down, but the street was dirty, and the glaring light of thesinking sun fell full on the faces of the home-going stream of men andwomen. Julia's quick eye found Chester instantly. He had loitered nofarther than the corner, a hundred feet away, and was standing there,irresolute, stooped, still wearing his look of vague bewilderment.

　　The girl ran upstairs, and snatched her hat and a light coat. Twominutes later she was downstairs again, the chatelaine bag in which allgirls carried their money in those days jumping at her belt.

　　But in those two minutes Chester had disappeared. Julia felt sick withdisappointment as she reached the corner only to find him gone. Shestood looking quickly about her: up the street, down the street; he wasgone. It seemed to the girl that she could not go back to hergrandmother's house again; a disgust for everything and everybody in itshook her from head to foot. She was sorry for them, her grandmother,her cousins, but the simple fact remained that they could bear this sortof existence and she could not; it was stifling her; it was killing her.

　　"If they minded things as I do they would change them, somehow!" saidJulia to herself, walking on blindly. "My grandmother should never havelet things get to such a pass—I can't bear it! The smells and thefights—"

　　She stopped a car, one of the cable cars that ran out into the factorydistrict. Julia had no idea where she was going, nor did she care. Shegot on because one of the small forward outside seats was empty, and shecould sit there comfortably. The car went on and on, through a less andless populated district, but Julia, buried in unhappy thought, paid noattention to route or neighbourhood.

　　"All off!" shouted the conductor presently. Julia had meant to keep herseat for the return trip, but the man's glance at her young beautyannoyed her, and she got off the car.

　　She walked aimlessly along a battered cement sidewalk, betweenirregularly placed and shabby little houses. These were of too familiara type to interest Julia, but she presently came to a full stop before awide, one-story brick building, with a struggling garden separating itfrom the street, and straggling window boxes at every one of the widewindows. A flight of steps led up from the garden to the pretty whitefront door, and a neat brass plate, screwed to the cement at the turn ofthe steps, bore the words: "Alexander Toland Neighbourhood House."

　　It would have been a pretty house anywhere, with its crisp dotted muslincurtains, its trim colonial walls, but in this particular neighbourhoodit had an added charm of contrast, and Julia stood before it literallyspellbound by admiration, and smitten, too, with that strange sickfascination to which the mere name of Toland subjected her.

　　And while she stood there, Miss Anna Toland came to the door and stoodlooking down at the street. Julia's heart began to beat very fast, andthe blood rushed to her face. She bowed, and Miss Toland bowed.

　　"Oh, Miss Page!" said Miss Toland then, crisply ready with the name andthe request. "This is very fortunate! I wonder if you won't come in andhelp me a moment? I've been trying for one hour to make the hall keywork."

　　Julia said nothing. She mounted the steps and followed Miss Toland intothe hall.