Father Martin was not well; he had an assistant, Lydia said.  The bishop wanted to establish a convent here, and old Mrs. Hanson had left eleven hundred dollars for it.  Gertie Hanson lived in Fruitvale; she was married to a widower.  She had threatened to fight the will, but people said that she got quite a lot of money; the Hansons were richer than any one thought.  Anyway, she had not put up a gravestone to her mother yet, and Alice Clark said that Gertie had said that she couldn’t afford it.

“Why, that house must have been worth something!” Martie commented, picking up the threads with interest.

“Well, wouldn’t you think so!” Lydia said eagerly.

The morning had been so wasted that Sally was in a whirl of dinner-getting when they reached her house.  She had her hearty meal at noon on the children’s account; her little kitchen was filled with smoke and noise.  To-day she had masses of rather dark, mushy boiled rice, stewed neck of lamb, apples, and hot biscuits.  Martie, fresh from New York’s campaign of dietetic education, reflected that it was rather unusual fare for small children, but Sally’s quartette was healthy-looking enough, and full of life and excitement.  ’Lizabeth set the table; there was great running about, and dragging of chairs.

Martie studied her sister with amused admiration.  There was small room for maternal vapours in Sally’s busy life.  Her matter-of-fact voice ruled the confusion.

“Jim, you do as ’Lizabeth tells you, or you’ll get another whipping, sir!  Pour that milk into the pitcher, Brother.  Put on both sugar bowls, darling; Brother likes the brown.  Martie, dearest, I am ashamed of this muss, but in two minutes I’ll have them all started--there’s baby—­’Lizabeth, there’s baby; you’ll have to go up—­”

“I’ll go up!” Lydia and Martie said together.  Martie went through the bare little hallways upstairs, and peeped into shabby bedrooms full of small beds and dangling nightgowns and broken toys.

Mary was sitting up in her crib, tumbled, red-cheeked, tears hanging on her lashes.  The room was darkened for her nap; she wore a worn little discoloured wrapper; she clung to her rag doll.  Martie, with deathly weakness sweeping over her, smiled, and spoke to her.  The baby eyed her curiously, but she was not afraid.  Martie picked her up, and stood there holding her, while the knife turned and twisted in her heart.

After a while she wrapped a blanket about Mary, and carried her downstairs.  Sally saw that Martie’s face was ashen, and she knew why.  Lydia saw nothing.  Lydia would have said that Martie had placed poor Wallace’s picture on her bureau that morning, and had talked about him, calmly and dry-eyed; so why should she feel so much more for her baby?  Teddy had been a little strange, if eagerly friendly, with his other cousins; but he knew how to treat Mary.  He picked up the things she threw down from her high-chair, and tickled her, and made her laugh.