“I’m afraid we can’t afford it,” said Edith, glancing at Deborah.  And she had the same answer, again and again, for the requests her children made, if they involved but the smallest expense.  “No, dear, I’m afraid we can’t afford that,” she would say gently, with a sigh.  And under this constant pressure, these nightly little thrusts and jabs, Deborah would grow rigid with annoyance and impatience.

“For Heaven’s sake, Edith,” she burst out, one night when the children had gone to their lessons, “can you think of nothing on earth, except your own little family?”

“Here it comes again,” thought Roger, scowling into his paper.  He heard Edith’s curt reply: 

“No, I can’t, not nowadays.  Nobody else seems to think of them.”

“You mean that I don’t!”

“Do you?”

“Yes!  I’m thinking of George!  Do you want him killed in the trenches—­in a war with Germany or Japan?”

“Are you utterly mad?” demanded Edith.

“No, I’m awake—­my eyes are open!  But yours are shut so tight, my dear, you can’t see what has happened!  You know this war has made us poor and your own life harder, but that’s all.  The big thing it has done you know nothing about!”

“Suppose you teach me,” Edith said, with a prim provoking little smile.  Deborah turned on her angrily: 

“It has shown that all such mothers as you are out of date and have got to change!  That we’re bound together—­all over the world—­whether we like it or whether we don’t!  And that if we want to keep out of war, we’ve got to do it by coming right out of our own little homes—­and thinking, Edith, thinking!”

“Votes for women,” Edith said.  Deborah looked at her, rose with a shrug.

“All right, Edith, I give up.”

“Thank you.  I’m not worth it.  You’d better go back to your office now and go on with your work of saving the world.  And use every hour of your time and every dollar you possess.  I’ll stay here and look after my children.”

Deborah had gone into the hall.  Roger, buried deep in his paper, heard the heavy street door close.  He looked up with a feverish sigh—­and saw at the open door of his study George and Betsy standing, curious, solemn and wide eyed.  How long had they been listening?

CHAPTER XXXV

There came a season of sleet and rain when the smaller children were shut indoors and it was hard to keep them amused.  They did not look well, and Edith was worried.  She had always dreaded the spring, and to carry her family safely through she had taken them, in former years, to Atlantic City for two weeks.  That of course was impossible now.  Trouble was bound to come, she thought.  And it was not long in coming.  Bobby, who was ten years old and went to school with his brother George, caught a wretched cold one day.  Edith popped him into bed, but despite her many precautions he gave his cold to Bruce and Tad.