"Well, if you don't know anything that a big girl like you ought to know, I should think you might know enough not to try to make coffee with tea," said her father. Maria looked at her father in a bewildered sort of way. "I guess the coffee is in the other canister," said she, meekly. "Why didn't you say so then?" demanded her father. Maria was silent. It seemed to her that her father had gone mad. Harry Edgham made a ferocious stride across the kitchen to the pantry. Maria followed him. "I guess that is the coffee canister," said she, pointing. "Why didn't you say so, then?" asked her father, viciously, and again Maria made no reply. Her father seized the coffee canister and approached the stove. "I don't suppose you know how much she puts in. I don't suppose you know anything," said he. "I guess she puts in about a cupful," said Maria, trembling. "A cupful! with coffee at the price it is now? I guess she doesn't," said her father. He poured the coffee-pot full of boiling water from the tea-kettle, then he tipped the coffee canister into his hand, and put one small pinch into the pot. "Oh, father," ventured Maria. "I don't believe--" "You don't believe what?" "I don't believe that is enough." "Of course it's enough. Don't you suppose your father knows how to make coffee?" Her father set the coffee-pot on the stove, where it immediately began to boil. Then he carried back the canister into the pantry, and returned with a panful of eggs. "You can set the table, I suppose, anyhow?" said he. "You know enough to do as much as that?" "Yes, I can do that," replied Maria, with alacrity, and indeed she could. Her mother had exacted some small household tasks from her, and setting the table was one of them. She hurried into the dining-room and began setting the table with the pretty blue-flowered ware that her mother had been so proud of. She seemed to feel tears in her heart when she laid the plates, but none sprang to her eyes. Somehow, handling these familiar inanimate things was the acutest torture. Presently she smelled eggs burning. She realized that her father was burning up the eggs, in his utter ignorance of cookery. She thought privately that she didn't believe but she could cook the eggs, but she dared not go out in the kitchen. Her father, in his anxiety, had actually reached ferocity. He had always petted her, in his easy-going fashion, now he terrified her. She dared not go out there. All at once, as she was getting the clean napkins from the sideboard, she heard the front door open, and one of the neighbors, Mrs. Jonas White, entered without knocking. She was a large woman and carelessly dressed, but her great face was beaming with kindness and pity. "I just heard how bad your ma was," she said, in a loud whisper, "an' I run right over. I thought mebbe--How is she?" "She is very sick," replied Maria. She felt at first an impulse to burst into tears before this broadside of sympathy, then she felt stiff.