“No, I feel that Papa wouldn’t like it,” Mrs. Lancaster persisted.

“Oh, Papa!  He’d have died first!” the daughters would agree, in eager sympathy.  And the question of the sign would be dismissed again.

“Papa” had been a power in his day, a splendid, audacious, autocratic person, successful as a pioneer, a miner, a speculator, proud of a beautiful and pampered Southern wife and a nurseryful of handsome children.  These were the days of horses and carriages, when the Eddy Street mansion was built, when a score of servants waited upon Ma and the children.  But terrible times came finally upon this grandeur, the stock madness seized “Papa,” he was a rich man one day, a millionaire the next,—­he would be a multi-millionaire next week!  Ma never ceased to be grateful that Papa, on the very day that his fortune crashed to ruin, came home too sick and feverish to fully comprehend the calamity, and was lying in his quiet grave before his widow and her children did.

Mrs. Lancaster, in her fresh expensive black, with her five black-clad children beside her, thus had the world to face, at thirty-four.  George, the first-born, destined to die in his twentieth summer, was eighteen then, Mary Lou sixteen, helpless and feminine, and Alfred, at thirteen, already showed indications of being entirely spoiled.  Then came conscientious, gentle little Virginia, ten years old, and finally Georgianna, who was eight.

Out of the general wreckage, the Fulton Street house was saved, and to the Fulton Street house the spoiled, terrified little family moved.  Mary Lou sometimes told Susan with mournful pride of the weeping and wailing of those days, of dear George’s first job, that, with the check that Ma’s uncle in Albany sent every month, supported the family.  Then the uncle died, and George died, and Ma, shaken from her silent and dignified retirement, rose to the occasion in a manner that Mary Lou always regarded as miraculous, and filled the house with boarders.  And enjoyed the new venture thoroughly, too, although Mary Lou never suspected that.  Perhaps Ma, herself, did not realize how much she liked to bustle and toil, how gratifying the stir and confusion in the house were, after the silent want and loneliness.  Ma always spoke of women in business as unfortunate and hardened; she never spoke of her livelihood as anything but a temporary arrangement, never made out a bill in her life.  Upon her first boarders, indeed, she took great pride in lavishing more than the luxuries for which their board money could possibly pay.  Ma reminded them that she had no rent to pay, and that the girls would soon be married, and Alfie working.

But Papa had been dead for twenty years now, and still the girls were unmarried, and Alfred, if he was working, was doing it in so fitful and so casual a manner as to be much more of a burden than a help to his mother.  Alfred lost one position after another because he drank, and Ma, upon whose father’s table wine had been quite a matter of course, could not understand why a little too much drinking should be taken so seriously by Alfie’s employers, and why they could not give the boy another—­and another, and another—­ chance.  Ma never alluded, herself, to this little weakness of Alfie’s.  He was still her darling, the one son she had left, the last of the Lancasters.