Daily her mother was growing more inadequate and less given to restraint or consideration. As “bad” as she was, Madeleine could not help thinking what a “hard” time she had had. From whatever places she obtained work in these days (and it was not often any more) she was soon discharged, and then she would come inquiring after Madeleine, asking to be permitted to see her. Naturally, her shabby dress and shawl and rag of a hat, as well as her wastrel appearance, were an affront to any well-ordered household. Once in her presence, whenever Madeleine was permitted to see her, she would begin either a cozening or a lachrymose account of her great needs. “It’s out o’ oil I am, me dear,” or “Wurra, I have no wood” or “bread” or “meat”—never drink. “Ye won’t let yer pore old mother go cold or hungry, now, will ye? That’s the good girl now. Fifty cents now, if ye have it, me darlin’, or a quarter, an’ I’ll not be troublin’ ye soon again. Even a dime, if ye can spare me no more. God’ll reward ye. I’ll have work o’ me own to-morra. That’s the good girl now—ye won’t let me go away without anything.” Oscillating between shame and sympathy, her daughter would take from the little she had and give it to her, tremulous for fear the disturbing figure would prove her undoing. Then the old woman would go out, lurching sometimes in her cups, and disappear, while an observant fellow servant was probably seeing and reporting to the mistress, who, of course, did not want her to come there and so told the girl, or, more practical still, discharged her. Thus from her fourteenth to her sixteenth year she was shunted from house to house and from shop to shop, always in the vain hope that this time her mother might let her alone. And at the very same time, life, sweetened by the harmonies of youth in the blood, was calling—that exterior life which promised everything because so far it had given nothing. The little simple things of existence, the very ordinary necessities of clothing and ornament, with which the heart of youth and the inherent pride of appearance are gratified, had a value entirely disproportionate to their worth. Yes, already she had turned the age wherein the chemic harmonies in youth begin to sing, thought to thought, color to color, dream to dream. She was being touched by the promise of life itself. And then, as was natural, love in the guise of youth, a rather sophisticated gallant somewhat above the world in which she was moving, appeared and paid his all but worthless court to her. He was physically charming, the son of a grocer of some means in the vicinity in which she was working, a handsome youth with pink cheeks and light hair and blue eyes, and vanity enough for ten. Because she was shy and pretty he became passingly interested in her. “Oh, I saw you cleaning the windows yesterday,” this with a radiant, winning smile; or “You must live down toward Blake Street. I see you going down that way once in a while.”