Upham muttered an apology as Jerome picked his way across the room.

“Laury has been up all night with the baby, an’ she hasn’t had any time to redd up the room,” he said.  “The children have been in here all the mornin’, too, an’ they’ve stirred things up some.  I’ve just sent ’em out to pick flowers to keep ’em quiet.”

As he spoke he gathered up awkwardly, with a curious over-motion of his broad shoulders, as if he would conceal the action, various articles in his path.  When he opened the door into the bedroom he crammed them behind it with a quick, shifty motion.

The kitchen had been repulsive, but the bedroom fairly shocked with the very indelicacy of untidiness.  Jerome felt an actual modesty about entering this room, in which so many disclosures of the closest secrets of the flesh were made.  The very dust and discolorations of the poor furnishings, the confined air, made one turn one’s face aside as from too coarse a betrayal of personal reserve.  The naked indecency of domestic life seemed to display and vaunt itself, sparing none of its homely and ungraceful details, to the young man on the threshold of the room.

“Laury ’ain’t had a chance to redd up this, either,” poor John Upham whispered in his ear, and gathered up with a furtive swoop some linen from the floor.

“Oh, that’s all right!” Jerome whispered back, and entered boldly, shutting as it were all the wretched disclosures of the room out of his consciousness, and all effort to do was needless when he saw Mrs. Upham’s face.

Laura Upham’s great hollow eyes, filled with an utter passiveness of despair, stared up at him out of a sallow gloom of face.  She had been pretty once, and she was not an old woman now, but her beauty was all gone.  Her slender shoulders rounded themselves over the little creature swathed in soiled flannel on her lap.  Just then it was quiet; but it began wailing again, distorting all its miserable little face into a wide mouth of feeble clamor as Jerome drew near.

Mrs. Upham looked down at it hopelessly.  She did not try to hush it.  “It’s cried this way all night,” she said, in a monotonous tone.  “It’s goin’ to die.”

“Now, Laury, you know it ain’t any sicker than it was before,” John said, with a kind of timid conciliation; but she turned upon him with a fierce gleam lighting her dull eyes to life.

“You needn’t talk to me,” said she—­“you needn’t talk to me, John Upham, when you won’t have the doctor when it’s your own flesh an’ blood that’s dyin’.  I don’t care what he’s done.  I don’t care if he has taken the roof from over our heads.  My child is worth more than anything else.  He’d come if you asked him, he couldn’t refuse—­you know he couldn’t, John Upham!”

John Upham’s face was white; his forehead and his chin got a curious hardness of outline.  “He won’t have a chance,” he said, between his teeth.

“Let your own flesh and blood die, then!” cried his wife; but the fierceness was all gone from her voice; she had no power of sustained wrath, so spent was she.  She gave a tearless wail that united with the child’s in her lap in a pitiful chord of woe.