As if the moments themselves had been woven by her flying amber needles into a whole cloth of meditation, Mrs. Lipkind, beside a kitchen lamp that flowed in gracious light, knitted the long, quiet hours of her evening into fabric, her face screwed and out of repose and occasionally the lips moving. Age is prone to that. Memories love to be mumbled and chewed over--the unconscious kind of articulation which comes with the years and for which youth has a wink and a quirk. A tiger cat with overfed sides and a stare that seemed to doze purred on the window-ledge, gold and unswerving of eye. The silence was like the singing inside of a shell, and into it rocked Mrs. Lipkind. By nine o'clock she was already glancing up at the clock, cocking her head to each and every of night's creaks. By half after nine there were small and frequent periods of peering through cupped hands down into a street so remote that its traffic had neither shape nor identity. Once she went down a long slit of hallway to the front door, opening it and gazing out upon a fog-filled corridor that was papered in embossed leatherette, one speckled incandescent bulb lighting it sadly. There was something impregnable, even terrible to her in the featureless stare of the doors of three adjoining apartments. She tiptoed, almost ran, poor dear! with the consciousness of some one at her heels, back to the kitchen, where at least was the warm print of the cat's presence; fell to knitting again, clacking her needles for the solace of explainable sound. Identically with the round moment of ten Mr. Lipkind entered, almost running down the hallway. "Hello, ma! Think I got lost? Just got to talking and didn't realize. Haven't been worried, ma? Afraid?" She lifted her head from his kiss. "'Afraid!' What you take me for? For why should I be worried at only ten o'clock? Say, I'm glad if you stay out for recreation." He kissed her again, shaking out of his coat and unwinding his muffler. "I could just see you walking the floor and looking out of the window." "Sa-y, I been so busy all evening I didn't have time to think. I'm not such a worrier no more like I used to be. Like the saying is--life is too short." He drew up beside her, lifting her needles off her work. "Little sweetheart mamma, why don't you sit on the big sofa in the front room where it's more comfortable?" "You can't make, Sammy, out of a pig's ear a silk stocking." He would detain her hands, his eyes puckered and, so intent upon her. "You had a good time, Sammy?" "You'd be surprised, ma, what a nice place Clara boards at." "What did they have to eat? Good cooking?" "Not for a fellow that's used to my boarding-house."' "What?" "I couldn't tell if it was soup or finger-bowls they served for the first course." "I know--stylish broth. Let me warm you up a little of my thick barley soup that's left over from--"