He dusted his hands together, slowly, spiritlessly. His eyes looked pained and dull. "She did, h'm? You say she did?" He was talking to himself, and thinking, thinking. Pinky, sensing victory, left him. She ran lightly up the cellar stairs, through the first-floor rooms, and up to the second floor. Her mother's bedroom door was open. A little mauve lamp shed its glow upon the tired woman in one of the plump, gray-enamel beds. "No, I'm not sleeping. Come here, dear. What in the world have you been doing in the cellar all this time?" "Talking to dad." She came over and perched herself on the side of the bed. She looked down at her mother. Then she bent and kissed her. Mrs. Brewster looked incredibly girlish with the lamp's rosy glow on her face and her hair, warmly brown and profuse, rippling out over the pillow. Scarcely a thread of gray in it. "You know, mother, I think dad isn't well. He ought to go away." As if by magic the youth and glow faded out of the face on the pillow. As she sat up, clutching her nightgown to her breast, she looked suddenly pinched and old. "What do you mean, Pinky! Father--but he isn't sick. He--" "Not sick. I don't mean sick exactly. But sort of worn out. That furnace. He's sick and tired of the thing; that's what he said to Fred. He needs a change. He ought to retire and enjoy life. He could. This house is killing both of you. Why in the world don't you close it up, or sell it, and come to New York?" "But we do. We did. Last winter--" "I don't mean just for a little trip. I mean to live. Take a little two-room apartment in one of the new buildings--near my studio--and relax. Enjoy yourselves. Meet new men and women. Live! You're in a rut--both of you. Besides, dad needs it. That rheumatism of his, with these Wisconsin winters--" "But California--we could go to California for--" "That's only a stop-gap. Get your little place in New York all settled, and then run away whenever you like, without feeling that this great hulk of a house is waiting for you. Father hates it; I know it." "Did he ever say so?" "Well, practically. He thinks you're fond of it. He--" Slow steps ascending the stairs--heavy, painful steps. The two women listened in silence. Every footfall seemed to emphasize Pinky's words. The older woman turned her face toward the sound, her lips parted, her eyes anxious, tender. "How tired he sounds," said Pinky; "and old. And he's only--why, dad's only fifty-eight." "Fifty-seven," snapped Mrs. Brewster, sharply, protectingly. Pinky leaned forward and kissed her. "Good-night, mummy dear. You're so tired, aren't you?" Her father stood in the doorway. "Good-night, dear. I ought to be tucking you into bed. It's all turned around, isn't it? Biscuits and honey for breakfast, remember." So Pinky went off to her own room (_sans_ slp cov) and slept soundly, dreamlessly, as does one whose work is well done. * * * * *