“They are such poor, dirty little things,” Maria said, “and their clothes were wet, and—­and—­” A look of nausea overspread her face.

“You will get used to that,” said her uncle, laughing pleasantly.  “Eunice, haven’t we got some cologne somewhere?”

Eunice got a bottle of cologne, which was seldom used, being a luxury, from a closet in the sitting-room, and put some on Maria’s handkerchief.  “You won’t think anything about it after a little,” said she, echoing her husband.

“I suppose the scholars in Lowe Academy were a different class,” said Aunt Maria, who had seated herself as primly as ever, with her hands crossed but not touching the lap of her black gown.  The folds of the skirt were carefully arranged, and she did not move after having once seated herself, for fear of creasing it.

“They were clean, at least,” said Maria, with a little grimace of disgust.  “It does seem as if people might be clean, if they are poor.”

“Some folks here are too poor to buy soap and wash-cloths and towels,” her uncle said, still not bitterly.  “You must take that into account, Maria.  It takes a little extra money even to keep clean; people don’t get that into their heads, generally speaking, but it is so.”

“Well, I haven’t had much money,” said Aunt Maria, “but I must say I have kept myself in soap and wash-rags and towels.”

“You might not have been able to if you had had half a dozen children and a drinking husband, or one who was out of work half the time,” her brother said.

An elderly blush spread over his sister’s face.  “Well, the Lord knows I’d rather have the soap and towels and wash-rags than a drunken husband and half a dozen dirty children,” she retorted, sharply.

“Lucky for you and the children that you have,” said Henry.  Then he turned again to his niece, of whom he was very fond.  “It won’t rain every day, dear,” he said, “and the smells won’t be so bad.  Don’t worry.”

Maria smiled back at him bravely.  “I shall get used to it,” she said, sniffing at the cologne, which was cheap and pretty bad.

Maria was in reality dismayed.  Her experience with children—­that is, her personal experience—­had been confined to her sister Evelyn.  She compared dainty little Evelyn with the rough, uncouth, half-degenerates which she had encountered that morning, sitting before her with gaping mouths of stupidity or grins of impish impudence, in their soiled, damp clothing, and her heart sank.  There was nothing in common except youth between these children, the offspring of ignorance and often drunken sensuality, and Evelyn.  At first it seemed to her that there was absolutely no redeeming quality in the whole.  However, the next morning the sun shone through the yellow maple boughs, and was reflected from the golden carpet of leaves which the wind and rain of the day before had spread beneath.  The children were dry; some of them had become ingratiating, even affectionate.