“Oh, hello.  Sue,” said Betsey apathetically.  “Don’t go in there, it’s so cold,” she said, leading her caller past the closed door of the sitting-room.  “This hall is so dark that we ought to keep a light here,” added Betsey fretfully, as they stumbled along.  “Come out into the dining-room, Sue, or into the kitchen.  I was trying to get a fire started.  But Jim never brings up enough wood!  He’ll talk about it, and talk about it, but when you want it I notice it’s never there!”

Everywhere were dust and disorder and evidences of neglect.  Susan hardly recognized the dining-room; it was unaired, yet chilly; a tall, milk-stained glass, and some crumbs on the green cloth, showed where little Betsey had had a lonely luncheon; there were paper bags on the sideboard and a litter of newspapers on a chair.  Nothing suggested the old, exquisite order.

The kitchen was even more desolate, as it had been more inviting before.  There were ashes sifting out of the stove, rings of soot and grease on the table-top, more soot, and the prints of muddy boots on the floor.  Milk had soured in the bottles, odds and ends of food were everywhere, Betsey’s book was open on the table, propped against the streaked and stained coffee-pot.

“Your mother’s ill?” asked Susan.  She could think of no other explanation.

“Doesn’t this kitchen look awful?” said Betsey, resuming operations with books and newspapers at the range.  “No, Mother’s all right.  I’m going to take her up some tea.  Don’t you touch those things, Sue.  Don’t you bother!”

“Has she been in bed?” demanded Susan.

“No, she gets up every day now,” Betsey said impatiently.  “But she won’t come downstairs!”

“Won’t!  But why not!” gasped Susan.

“She—­” Betsey glanced cautiously toward the hall door.  “She hasn’t come down at all,” she said, softly.  “Not—­since!”

“What does Anna say?” Susan asked aghast.

“Anna comes home every Saturday, and she and Phil talk to Mother,” the little sister said, “but so far it’s not done any good!  I go up two or three times a day, but she won’t talk to me.—­Sue, ought this have more paper?”

The clumsy, roughened little hands, the sad, patient little voice and the substitution of this weary little woman for the once-radiant and noisy Betsey sent a pang to Susan’s heart.

“Well, you poor little old darling, you!” she burst out, pitifully.  “Do you mean that you’ve been facing this for a month?  Betsey—­it’s too dreadful—­you dear little old heroic scrap!”

“Oh, I’m all right!” said Betsey, beginning to tremble.  She placed a piece or two of kindling, fumbled for a match, and turned abruptly and went to a window, catching her apron to her eyes.  “I’m all right—­don’t mind me!” sobbed Betsey.  “But sometimes I think I’ll go crazy!  Mother doesn’t love me any more, and everybody cried all Thanksgiving Day, and I loved Jo more than they think I did—­they think I’m too young to care—­but I just can’t bear it!”