Ellen stared. It was her first knowledge that this girl, this painted hussy, worked in Willy's pharmacy, and her suspicions increased. She had a quick vision, as she had once had of Lily, of Edith in the Cameron house; Edith reading or embroidering on the front porch while Willy's mother slaved for her; Edith on the same porch in the evening, with all the boys in town around her. She knew the type, the sort that set an entire village by the ears and in the end left home and husband and ran away with a traveling salesman. Ellen had already got Willy married and divorced when Mrs. Boyd came in. She carried the milk pail, but her lips were blue and she sat down in a chair and held her hand to her heart. “I'm that short of breath!” she gasped. “I declare I could hardly get back.” “I'll give you some coffee, right off.” When Willy Cameron had finished his breakfast she followed him into the parlor. His pallor was not lost on her, or his sunken eyes. He looked badly fed, shabby, and harassed, and he bore the marks of his sleepless night on his face. “Are you going to stay here?” she demanded. “Why, yes, Miss Ellen.” “Your mother would break her heart if she knew the way you're living.” “I'm very comfortable. We've tried to get a ser--” He changed color at that. In the simple life of the village at home a woman whose only training was the town standard of good housekeeping might go into service in the city and not lose caste. But she was never thought of as a servant. “--help,” he substituted. “But we can't get any one, and Mrs. Boyd is delicate. It is heart trouble.” “Does that girl work where you do?” “Yes. Why?” “Is she engaged to you? She calls you Willy.” He smiled into her eyes. “Not a bit of it, or thinking of it.” “How do you know what she's thinking? It's all over her. It's Willy this and Willy that--and men are such fools.” There flashed into his mind certain things that he had tried to forget; Edith at his doorway, with that odd look in her eyes; Edith never going to sleep until he had gone to bed; and recently, certain things she had said, that he had passed over lightly and somewhat uncomfortably. “That's ridiculous, Miss Ellen. But even if it were true, which it isn't, don't you think it would be rather nice of her?” He smiled. “I do not. I heard you going out last night, Willy. Did you find her?” “She is at the Doyles'. I didn't see her.” “That'll finish it,” Ellen prophesied, somberly. She glanced around the parlor, at the dust on the furniture, at the unwashed baseboard, at the unwound clock on the mantel shelf. “If you're going to stay here I will,” she announced abruptly. “I owe that much to your mother. I've got some money. I'll take what they'd pay some foreigner who'd throw out enough to keep another family.” Then, seeing hesitation in his eyes: “That woman's sick, and you've got to be looked after. I could do all the work, if that--if the girl would help in the evenings.”