“Sure,” he replied, as much as to say that the visit was not unexpected.  “Well, I’ve been thinking about it, Miss Janet.  I’ve got a stove here I know’ll suit your mother.  It’s a Reading, it’s almost new.  Ye’d better be having a look at it yourself.”

He led her into a chaos of stoves, grates, and pipes at the back of the store.

“It’s in need of a little polish,” he added, as he turned on a light, “but it’s sound, and a good baker, and economical with coal.”  He opened the oven and took off the lids.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about stoves,” she told him.  “But I’ll trust your judgment.  How much is it?” she inquired hesitatingly.

He ran his hand through his corkscrewed hair, his familiar gesture.

“Well, I’m willing to let ye have it for twenty-five dollars.  If that’s too much—­mebbe we can find another.”

“Can you put it in to-morrow morning?” she asked.

“I can that,” he said.  She drew out her purse.  “Ye needn’t be paying for it all at once,” he protested, laying a hand on her arm.  “You won’t be running away.”

“Oh, I’d rather—­I have the money,” she declared hurriedly; and she turned her back that he might not perceive, when she had extracted the bills, how little was left in her purse.

“I’ll wager ye won’t be wanting another soon,” he said, as he escorted her to the door.  And he held it open, politely, looking after her, until she had crossed the street, calling out a cheerful “Goodnight” that had in it something of a benediction.  She avoided the dining-room and went straight to bed, in a strange medley of feelings.  The self-sacrifice had brought a certain self-satisfaction not wholly unpleasant.  She had been equal to the situation, and a part of her being approved of this,—­a part which had been suppressed in another mood wherein she had become convinced that self-realization lay elsewhere.  Life was indeed a bewildering thing....

The next morning, at breakfast, though her mother’s complaints continued, Janet was silent as to her purchase, and she lingered on her return home in the evening because she now felt a reluctance to appear in the role of protector and preserver of the family.  She would have preferred, if possible, to give the stove anonymously.  Not that the expression of Hannah’s gratitude was maudlin; she glared at Janet when she entered the dining-room and exclaimed:  “You hadn’t ought to have gone and done it!”

And Janet retorted, with almost equal vehemence:—­“Somebody had to do it—­didn’t they?  Who else was there?”

“It’s a shame for you to spend your money on such things.  You’d ought to save it you’ll need it,” Hannah continued illogically.

“It’s lucky I had the money,” said Janet.

Both Janet and Hannah knew that these recriminations, from the other, were the explosive expressions of deep feeling.  Janet knew that her mother was profoundly moved by her sacrifice.  She herself was moved by Hannah’s plight, but tenderness and pity were complicated by a renewed sense of rebellion against an existence that exacted such a situation.