“The poor fish,” Dan snarled. “I thought he had some sense. Letting himself in for a nice life, isn't he? We're not his kind, and you know it. He knows more in a minute than you'll know all your days. In about three months he'll hate the very sight of you, and then where'll you be?” When she made no reply, he called to the dog and went out into the yard. She saw him there, brooding and sullen, and she knew that he had not finished. He would say no more to her, but he would wait and have it out with Willy himself. Supper was silent. No one ate much, and Ellen, coming down with the tray, reported Mrs. Boyd as very tired, and wanting to settle down early. “She looks bad to me,” she said to Edith. “I think the doctor ought to see her.” “I'll go and send him.” Edith was glad to get out of the house. She had avoided the streets lately, but as it was the supper hour the pavements were empty. Only Joe Wilkinson, bare-headed, stood in the next doorway, and smiled and flushed slightly when he saw her. “How's your mother?” he asked. “She's not so well. I'm going to get the doctor.” “Do you mind if I get my hat and walk there with you?” “I'm going somewhere else from there, Joe.” “Well, I'll walk a block or two, anyhow.” She waited impatiently. She liked Joe, but she did not want him then. She wanted to think and plan alone and in the open air, away from the little house with its odors and its querulous thumping cane upstairs; away from Ellen's grim face and Dan's angry one. He came out almost immediately, followed by a string of little Wilkinsons, clamoring to go along. “Do you mind?” he asked her. “They can trail along behind. The poor kids don't get out much.” “Bring them along, of course,” she said, somewhat resignedly. And with a flash of her old spirit: “I might have brought Jinx, too. Then we'd have had a real procession.” They moved down the street, with five little Wilkinsons trailing along behind, and Edith was uncomfortably aware that Joe's eyes were upon her. “You don't look well,” he said at last. “You're wearing yourself out taking care of your mother, Edith.” “I don't do much for her.” “You'd say that, of course. You're very unselfish.” “Am I?” She laughed a little, but the words touched her. “Don't think I'm better than I am, Joe.” “You're the most wonderful girl in the world. I guess you know how I feel about that.” “Don't Joe!” But at that moment a very little Wilkinson fell headlong and burst into loud, despairing wails. Joe set her on her feet, brushed her down with a fatherly hand, and on her refusal to walk further picked her up and carried her. The obvious impossibility of going on with what he had been saying made him smile sheepishly. “Can you beat it?” he said helplessly, “these darn kids--!” But he held the child close.