Mrs. Kennedy flushed, too, but couldn’t deny it. She had before her mind’s eye the descent of her family--how she had sunk below her parents’ level, just as Angelica had grown up coarser and more ignorant than herself. Unaccountably there came to her the memory of another afternoon when she had been scrubbing stairs, like to-day, but in the home of her girlhood; a summer afternoon, long, long ago. She remembered that she had complained of being tired out, and her mother had bidden her go up-stairs and lie down. And she remembered--how well!--stretching herself out on the bed in the neat, darkened room, and her stout, kindly mother bringing her up a cup of tea. Her thoughts lingered with her mother, a sober Scotch-woman, living out her life in the shelter of her own home. A nice home, too; a little frame house in Brooklyn, comfortably furnished, modest, but not without dignity. The suppers there, her mother, her sandy-haired, anxious little father--assistant to a grocer--and herself, sitting at the little round table covered with a red checked cloth, with the bland light of the lamp on their faces--she saw it painfully, bitterly well; and her father asking who was that young chap who had walked home from the chapel with her, and her mother pretending to frown. They were so proud and pleased with her prettiness and briskness, so hopeful for her! For just a moment she passionately resented her rôle of parent, forever giving and giving. She wanted to have one person on earth concerned with _her_ fatigue, _her_ sorrow. She sat quite still before her little supper, lost in her thought. Then some slight movement of her child’s brought her back to life, and she looked up with her little sigh. Poor, poor Angelica! Poor lovely, unhappy thing, working in a factory! Wouldn’t that have shocked her grandparents? Wouldn’t they have been shocked at Angelica, anyway--her swagger, her language, her point of view! Her heart melted with pity for her child. "I don’t blame you, Angelica," she said. "I know how hard it is to get on with that sort; but, deary, what better can you do? One job’s as bad as another. The thing is to do your best and trust in Providence. I’ll do the best I can to make things happy for you here at home. We’ll have our little treats. We’ve always been happy together, haven’t we? It’s our lot in life to have to work hard and get very little. We’ve got to put up with it, and just be as happy as we can." "No, I’m not like that. I’m--no, I _won’t_!" She wasn’t able to express her rebellion, her vehement longings, but her mother understood her very well. "I was just like you," she said mournfully; "restless--always after something new--anything for a change. I wanted--the Lord knows _what_ I wanted!" She poured out another cup of tea.