Lizzie opened her mouth to speak but Lydia shook her head, and the two stood in silence, watching the departure of the visitors.  When the door had closed Lizzie burst forth in an angry tirade, but Lydia only half listened.  She looked slowly around the living-room, then walked into the dining-room and thence into the kitchen.  She opened the pantry door and stared at the dust and disorder, the remnants of food, the half washed dishes.  Suddenly she thought of the shining and orderly kitchen in the High School basement.  Supposing the cooking teacher should come out to supper, sometime!  Lydia had asked her to come.

She came slowly back into the living-room.  Old Lizzie was replenishing the stove, still muttering to herself.  Lydia observed for the first time that her apron was dirty.  Thinking it over, she could not recall ever having seen Lizzie with a clean apron.  A deep sense of shame suddenly enveloped Lydia.

“Oh, I wish some one had taught me,” she groaned.  “I wish mother had lived.  Everybody has to go and die on me!  I suppose Lizzie and Dad’ll be next.  Adam helps to keep the house dirty.  There’s dog hair everywhere.”

“Don’t you get worked up over Elviry Marshall, child,” said Lizzie.

“I hate her,” exclaimed Lydia, “but what she said about the house is true.  Anyhow, I’ve learned how to clean pantry shelves, so here goes.”

She tied one of Lizzie’s aprons round her neck, pushed a chair into the pantry and began her unsavory task.  It was dusk when she finished and led Lizzie out to observe the shiny, sweet smelling orderliness of the place.

“Land, it does make a difference!  If the rheumatiz didn’t take all the ambition out of me, I’d keep it that way for you,” said the old lady.

“I’ll do it, every Saturday.  Gosh, I’m tired!” groaned Lydia, throwing herself on the living-room couch.  “Lizzie, give me some of your mutton tallow to rub on my hands.  The cooking teacher says it’s fine for hands.”

Lydia lay in the twilight, watching the coals glow in the base burner, while the aroma of the baked beans and brown bread Lizzie was tending in the kitchen floated in to her.  Adam lay on the floor by the stove, where he could keep one drowsy eye on her every motion.  She was thinking of her mother and of little Patience.  She could think of them now without beginning to tremble.  She tried to picture every detail of her mother’s face.  They had no picture of her nor of the baby, and Lydia was afraid she would forget.  She wondered if they were together, if they knew how hard she was trying to obey her mother’s injunction to “make something” of herself.  “Be a lady!” “Never be coarse.”  There was nobody to show her things, she thought.  How could she ever learn to be a lady?  “If I believed in praying any more, I’d pray about lots of things,” she thought, sadly.  “But either there isn’t any God, or else He don’t believe in prayer, Himself.  Gee, supper smells good.  I’m awful hungry.  I wonder why Mrs. Marshall hates me so.  I suppose because I’m such a common kid and she still thinks I almost drowned Margery.  And I don’t believe a word she says about Mr. Levine, either.  Hateful old beast!  If I believed in prayer, you bet I’d tell God a few things about her.”