She sprang lightly to her feet and went back to her dishes. The water was cold, and the teakettle almost empty, and mutton-chops did make such greasy plates. But Helen splashed in cheerfully. She was thinking of Uncle 'Gene's letter on the mantel-piece, and the final decision about it that very morning over the mutton-chops. It made her sing in sudden ecstatic anticipation. What did she care about cold dish-water and uncanny dishes, when she was going to-- She filled out the thought with pantomimic action, running scales up and down the edge of the sink with dripping fingers, and executing intricate tuneless measures amid dying soapsuds. "Helen, Helen!" called a sweet plaintive voice from the bedroom. "Yes'm." The musical "selection" came to a quick stop. Helen hurried in, wiping her hands on her apron and rescuing the baby from an ignominious descent upon her nose on the way. "What is it, motherdie? is your head worse?" she asked, anxiously. "I'm afraid it's those noisy clothes-pins." "No, dear, but there's a draught somewhere. I can feel it on my neck. And I wish you'd rub my shoulder again. It's unusually achy this morning." Helen found the liniment bottle, and went to work with practised, gentle touch. It was one of the dear invalid's bad days, and she had not tried to get up. Her pale face looked up into Helen's with wistful appreciation of the loving care. She was thinking of Uncle 'Gene's letter too. The clock out in the kitchen struck eleven ponderously as Helen set the bottle away and put the screen before the window. In half an hour the primary children would be home, and close on their heels the older ones. And what hungry, hurrying-scurrying little mortals they would be! "Dear little mother, poor little mother, I'll shut the door and keep the Arabs as still as I ever can." Helen always called them the Arabs when she spoke of them collectively. It was a family pet name for them. The baby had toppled into the big pan, and was fast asleep when Helen went out. She picked her up and laid her tenderly beside the mother. Then with wonderful ease she flew about, finishing the dishes, setting the table for lunch, and doing three things at once with nimble dexterity. She met the Arabs at the door with hushing forefinger. They trooped in on tiptoe, sniffing anxiously for dinner smells. "I'm awful hungry!" Archie whispered, shrilly. "So be I--_awful_!" Harry echoed. "_Are_ there sweet-potatoes, Helen?" "I smell 'em! I smell 'em!" Molly cried, under her breath, dancing across the floor. "'Sh! 'sh! Yes, there are sweet-potatoes, but not for Arabs with dirty faces. Come here this minute, and let me polish you up. Oh, Harry, where ever did you tear your trousers so? A great big hog tear!" "Folks oughter not have fences with splinters to 'em, then," Harry spluttered, with his mouth full of soapy water. "I was crawlin' under to see if Pat Curran's cow chews gum. Bill Miller says so." "Does she?" Molly asked, eagerly.