“How much milk do you get regularly?” Julia asked, looking worried.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Torney said, from the sink, where she was attacking a greasy frying pan with cold water and a gray rag worn into holes, “you forget we ain’t rich people here.  We don’t have him leave milk, but if we want it we put a bottle out on the back steps.”

“You ought to have plenty of milk, Mama, taking those strong, depressing medicines!” Julia said.

“Well, I ain’t got much appetite, Julie,” her mother answered, with that new and touching smile.  “Now, last night the girls had cabbage and corn beef cooking—­I used to be real fond of that dinner, but it almost made me sick, just smelling it!  So Geraldine fried me an egg, yet that didn’t taste good, either!  Gettin’ old and fussy, I guess!”

Julia felt the tears press suddenly behind her eyes as she answered the patient smile.  “Mama, I think you are terribly patient!” said she.

“I guess you can get used to anything!” Emeline said.

Regina coughed, and huddled herself in her chair.

“But I thought since we had the air-tight stove put in the other room you were going to use it more?” said Julia, as Mrs. Torney shook down the cooking stove with a violence that filled the air with the acrid taste of ashes.

“Well, we do sometimes.  I meant to clean it to-day and get it started again,” her aunt said.  “I’m sure I don’t know what we’re going to do for dinner, Ma,” she added.  “Here it is getting round to five, and Geraldine hasn’t come in.  I don’t know what on earth she does with herself—­weather like this!”

Mrs. Cox made no response; she was nodding in the twilight over the little relaxed figure of the baby; a fat little white-clad leg rolled on her knee as she rocked.  A moment later Geraldine, a heavy, highly coloured girl, much what her sister Marguerite had been ten years before, burst in, cold, wet, and tired, with a strapful of wet books which she flung on the table.

“My Lord, what do you keep this place so dark for, Ma!” said Geraldine.  “It’s something awful!  Hello, Julia!” She kissed her cousin, picked Julia’s big muff from a chair, and pressed the soft sables for a moment to her face.  “Well, the little old darling, she’s asleep, isn’t she?” she murmured over the baby.  “Say, Mamma,” she went on more briskly, “I’ve got company coming to-night—­”

“You!” said Julia, smiling, and laying an affectionate hand on her young cousin’s shoulder, as she stood beside her.  “Why, how old are you, child?”

“I’m sixteen—­nearly,” Geraldine said stoutly.  “Didn’t you have beaus when you were sixteen?”

“I suppose I did!” Julia admitted, smiling.  “But you seem awfully young!”

“I thought—­maybe you’d go to the store for me,” said Mrs. Torney.  Geraldine glared at her.

“Oh, my God! haven’t the things come?” she demanded, in shrill disgust.  “I can’t, Mamma, I’m sopping wet, and I’ve got to clean the parlour.  It’s all over ashes, and mud, and the Lord knows what!”