“I hope the stove’s all right, mother,” she said.  “Mr. Tiernan seemed to think it was a good one.”

“It’s a different thing,” declared Hannah.  “I was just wondering this evening, before you came in, how I ever made out to cook anything on the other.  Come and see how nice it looks.”

Janet followed her into the kitchen.  As they stood close together gazing at the new purchase Janet was uncomfortably aware of drops that ran a little way in the furrows of Hannah’s cheeks, stopped, and ran on again.  She seized her apron and clapped it to her face.

“You hadn’t ought to be made to do it!” she sobbed.

And Janet was suddenly impelled to commit an act rare in their intercourse.  She kissed her, swiftly, on the cheek, and fled from the room....

Supper was an ordeal.  Janet did not relish her enthronement as a heroine, she deplored and even resented her mother’s attitude toward her father, which puzzled her; for the studied cruelty of it seemed to belie her affection for him.  Every act and gesture and speech of Hannah’s took on the complexion of an invidious reference to her reliability as compared with Edward’s worthlessness as a provider; and she contrived in some sort to make the meal a sacrament in commemoration of her elder daughter’s act.

“I guess you notice the difference in that pork,” she would exclaim, and when he praised it and attributed its excellence to Janet’s gift Hannah observed:  “As long as you ain’t got a son, you’re lucky to have a daughter like her!”

Janet squirmed.  Her father’s acceptance of his comparative worthlessness was so abject that her pity was transferred to him, though she scorned him, as on former occasions, for the self-depreciation that made him powerless before her mother’s reproaches.  After the meal was over he sat listlessly on the sofa, like a visitor whose presence is endured, pathetically refraining from that occupation in which his soul found refreshment and peace, the compilation of the Bumpus genealogy.  That evening the papers remained under the lid of the desk in the corner, untouched.

What troubled Janet above all, however, was the attitude of Lise, who also came in for her share of implied reproach.  Of late Lise had become an increased source of anxiety to Hannah, who was unwisely resolved to make this occasion an object lesson.  And though parental tenderness had often moved her to excuse and defend Lise for an increasing remissness in failing to contribute to the household expenses, she was now quite relentless in her efforts to wring from Lise an acknowledgment of the nobility of her sister’s act, of qualities in Janet that she, Lise, might do well to cultivate.  Lise was equally determined to withhold any such acknowledgment; in her face grew that familiar mutinous look that Hannah invariably failed to recognize as a danger signal; and with it another —­the sophisticated expression of one who knows life and ridicules the lack of such knowledge in others.  Its implication was made certain when the two girls were alone in their bedroom after supper.  Lise, feverishly occupied with her toilet, on her departure broke the silence there by inquiring:—­“Say, if I had your easy money, I might buy a stove, too.  How much does Ditmar give you, sweetheart?”