The next morning, at breakfast, though her mother’s complaints continued, Janet was silent as to her purchase, and she lingered on her return home in the evening because she now felt a reluctance to appear in the role of protector and preserver of the family.  She would have preferred, if possible, to give the stove anonymously.  Not that the expression of Hannah’s gratitude was maudlin; she glared at Janet when she entered the dining-room and exclaimed:  “You hadn’t ought to have gone and done it!”

And Janet retorted, with almost equal vehemence:—­“Somebody had to do it—­didn’t they?  Who else was there?”

“It’s a shame for you to spend your money on such things.  You’d ought to save it you’ll need it,” Hannah continued illogically.

“It’s lucky I had the money,” said Janet.

Both Janet and Hannah knew that these recriminations, from the other, were the explosive expressions of deep feeling.  Janet knew that her mother was profoundly moved by her sacrifice.  She herself was moved by Hannah’s plight, but tenderness and pity were complicated by a renewed sense of rebellion against an existence that exacted such a situation.

“I hope the stove’s all right, mother,” she said.  “Mr. Tiernan seemed to think it was a good one.”

“It’s a different thing,” declared Hannah.  “I was just wondering this evening, before you came in, how I ever made out to cook anything on the other.  Come and see how nice it looks.”

Janet followed her into the kitchen.  As they stood close together gazing at the new purchase Janet was uncomfortably aware of drops that ran a little way in the furrows of Hannah’s cheeks, stopped, and ran on again.  She seized her apron and clapped it to her face.

“You hadn’t ought to be made to do it!” she sobbed.

And Janet was suddenly impelled to commit an act rare in their intercourse.  She kissed her, swiftly, on the cheek, and fled from the room....

Supper was an ordeal.  Janet did not relish her enthronement as a heroine, she deplored and even resented her mother’s attitude toward her father, which puzzled her; for the studied cruelty of it seemed to belie her affection for him.  Every act and gesture and speech of Hannah’s took on the complexion of an invidious reference to her reliability as compared with Edward’s worthlessness as a provider; and she contrived in some sort to make the meal a sacrament in commemoration of her elder daughter’s act.

“I guess you notice the difference in that pork,” she would exclaim, and when he praised it and attributed its excellence to Janet’s gift Hannah observed:  “As long as you ain’t got a son, you’re lucky to have a daughter like her!”

Janet squirmed.  Her father’s acceptance of his comparative worthlessness was so abject that her pity was transferred to him, though she scorned him, as on former occasions, for the self-depreciation that made him powerless before her mother’s reproaches.  After the meal was over he sat listlessly on the sofa, like a visitor whose presence is endured, pathetically refraining from that occupation in which his soul found refreshment and peace, the compilation of the Bumpus genealogy.  That evening the papers remained under the lid of the desk in the corner, untouched.