Mrs. Salisbury’s exhausted little body was drawn.  Weak as she was physically, her spirit never failed her; she met the overwhelming charges bravely, rallied, sank, rallied again and lived.  Alexandra grew thin, if prettier than ever, and Owen Sargent grew bold and big and protecting to meet her need.  The boys were “angels,” their sister said, helpful, awed and obedient, but the children’s father began to stoop a little and to show gray in the thick black hair at his temples.

Soberly, sympathetically, Justine steered her own craft through all the storm and confusion of the domestic crisis.  Trays appeared and disappeared without apparent effort.  Hot and delicious meals were ready at the appointed hours, whether the pulse upstairs went up or down.  Tradespeople were paid; there was always ice; there was always hot water.  The muffled telephone never went unanswered, the doctor never had to ring twice for admittance.  If fruit was sent up to the invalid, it was icy cold; if soup was needed, it appeared, smoking hot, and guiltless of even one floating pinpoint of fat.

Alexandra and the trained nurse always found the kitchen the same:  orderly, aired, silent, with Justine, a picture of domestic efficiency, sitting by the open window, or on the shady side porch, shelling peas or peeling apples, or perhaps wiping immaculate glasses with an immaculate cloth at the sink.  The ticking clock, the shining range, the sunlight lying in clean-cut oblongs upon the bright linoleum, Justine’s smoothly braided hair and crisp percales, all helped to form a picture wonderfully restful and reassuring in troubled days.

Alexandra, tired with a long vigil in the sick room, liked to slip down late at night, to find Justine putting the last touches to the day’s good work.  A clean checked towel would be laid over the rising, snowy mound of dough; the bubbling oatmeal was locked in the fireless cooker, doors were bolted, window shades drawn.  There was an admirable precision about every move the girl made.

The two young women liked to chat together, and sometimes, when some important message took her to Justine’s door in the evening, Alexandra would linger, pleasantly affected by the trim little apartment, the roses in a glass vase, Justine’s book lying open-faced on the bed, or her unfinished letter waiting on the table.  For all exterior signs, at these times, she might have been a guest in the house.

Promptly, on every Saturday evening, the Treasure presented her account book to Mr. Salisbury.  There was always a small balance, sometimes five dollars, sometimes one, but Justine evidently had well digested Dickens’ famous formula for peace of mind.

“You’re certainly a wonder, Justine!” said the man of the house more than once.  “How do you manage it?”

“Oh, I cut down in dozens of ways,” the girl returned, with her grave smile.  “You don’t notice it, but I know.  You have kidney stews, and onion soups, and cherry pies, instead of melons and steaks and ice-cream, that’s all!”