The boy Eugene grew up a very silent, handsome shy young fellow.  The girl dark, voluble, and rather interesting.  The husband, more and more immersed in his business, was absent from home for long periods; irritable after some of these home-comings; boisterously high-spirited following other trips.  Now growling about household expenses and unpaid bills; now urging the purchase of some almost prohibitive luxury.  Any one but a nagging, self-absorbed, and vain woman such as Flora would have marked these unmistakable signs.  But Flora was a taker, not a giver.  She thought herself affectionate because she craved affection unduly.  She thought herself a fond mother because she insisted on having her children with her, under her thumb, marking their devotion as a prisoner marks time with his feet, stupidly, shufflingly, advancing not a step.

Sometimes Sophy the clear-eyed and level-headed, seeing this state of affairs, tried to stop it.

“You expect too much of your husband and children,” she said one day, bluntly, to her sister.

“I!” Flora’s dimpled hands had flown to her breast like a wounded thing.  “I!  You’re crazy!  There isn’t a more devoted wife and mother in the world.  That’s the trouble.  I love them too much.”

“Well, then,” grimly, “stop it for a change.  That’s half Eugene’s nervousness—­your fussing over him.  He’s eighteen.  Give him a chance.  You’re weakening him.  And stop dinning that society stuff into Adele’s ears.  She’s got brains, that child.  Why, just yesterday, in the workroom she got hold of some satin and a shape and turned out a little turban that Angie Hatton—­”

“Do you mean to tell me that Angie Hatton saw my Adele working in your shop!  Now, look here, Sophy.  You’re earning your living, and it’s to your credit.  You’re my sister.  But I won’t have Adele associated in the minds of my friends with your hat store, understand.  I won’t have it.  That isn’t what I sent her away to an expensive school for.  To have her come back and sit around a millinery workshop with a lot of little, cheap, shoddy sewing girls!  Now understand, I won’t have it!  You don’t know what it is to be a mother.  You don’t know what it is to have suffered.  If you had brought two children into the world—­”

So then, it had come about, during the years between their childhood and their youth, that Aunt Sophy received the burden of their confidences, their griefs, their perplexities.  She seemed, somehow, to understand in some miraculous way, and to make the burden a welcome one.

“Well, now, you tell Aunt Sophy all about it.  Stop crying, Della.  How can Aunt Sophy hear when you’re crying!  That’s my baby.  Now, then.”

This when they were children.  But with the years the habit clung and became fixed.  There was something about Aunt Sophy’s house—­the old frame house with the warty stucco porch.  For that matter, there was something about the very shop downtown, with its workroom in the rear, that had a cozy, homelike quality never possessed by the big Baldwin house.  H. Charnsworth Baldwin had built a large brick mansion, in the Tudor style, on a bluff overlooking the Fox River, in the best residential section of Chippewa.  It was expensively and correctly furnished.  The hall consol alone was enough to strike a preliminary chill to your heart.