The weekly assets turned out to be his salary and Edith’s.

“Why, Willy,” said Mrs. Boyd, “you can’t turn all your money over to us.”

“You are all the family I have just now.  Why not?  Anyhow, I’ll have to keep out lunch money and carfare, and so will Edith.  Now as to expenses.”

Ellen had made a great reduction in expenses, but food was high.  And there was gas and coal, and Dan’s small insurance, and the rent.  There was absolutely no margin, and a sort of silence fell.

“What about your tuition at night school?” Edith asked suddenly.

“Spring term ended this week.”

“But you said there was a summer one.”

“Well, I’ll tell you about that,” Willy said, feeling for words.  “I’m going to be busy helping Mr. Hendricks in his campaign.  Then next fall—­well, I’ll either go back or Hendricks will make me chief of police, or something.”  He smiled around the table.  “I ought to get some sort of graft out of it.”

“Mother!” Edith protested.  “He mustn’t sacrifice himself for us.  What are we to him anyhow?  A lot of stones hung around his neck.  That’s all.”

It was after Willy had declared that this was his home now, and he had a right to help keep it going, and after Ellen had observed that she had some money laid by and would not take any wages during the strike, that the meeting threatened to become emotional.  Mrs. Boyd shed a few tears, and as she never by any chance carried a handkerchief, let them flow over her fichu.  And Dan shook Willy’s hand and Ellen’s, and said that if he’d had his way he’d be working, and not sitting round like a stiff letting other people work for him.  But Edith got up and went out into the little back garden, and did not come back until the meeting was both actually and morally broken up.  When she heard Dan go out, and Ellen and Mrs. Boyd go upstairs, chatting in a new amiability brought about by trouble and sacrifice, she put on her hat and left the house.

Ellen, rousing on her cot in Edith’s upper room, heard her come in some time later, and undress and get into bed.  Her old suspicion of the girl revived, and she sat upright.

“Where I come from girls don’t stay out alone until all hours,” she said.

“Oh, let me alone.”

Ellen fell asleep, and in her sleep she dreamed that Mrs. Boyd had taken sick and was moaning.  The moaning was terrible; it filled the little house.  Ellen wakened suddenly.  It was not moaning; it was strange, heavy breathing, strangling; and it came from Edith’s bed.

“Are you sick?” she called, and getting up, her knees hardly holding her, she lighted the gas at its unshaded bracket on the wall and ran to the other bed.

Edith was lying there, her mouth open, her lips bleached and twisted.  Her stertorous breathing filled the room, and over all was the odor of carbolic acid.

“Edith, for God’s sake!”