At least, that was how she appeared to her sister. Frankie honestly could not see a fault in her. Except that she was sometimes a bit too diplomatic, too anxious to keep things pleasant. That is, she didn’t always tell the truth--exactly.... She was not at all abashed if she were found out; she had always the same reply. “I thought it was for the best.” The long, long days went by, all alike. At five o’clock the alarm clock rang. Minnie jumped up and closed the window, and lighted the lamp on the bureau while Frances, pretending to be asleep, lay watching her. The lamp-light made a little bright spot in the big shadowy room, showing Minnie like an actress in the spotlight, only quite without self-consciousness, dressing herself quickly, wishing only to be neat. “I wish I weren’t a bit vain,” she would reflect. “Minnie’s so wonderful!” Then Minnie would go groping her way along the black corridor, stopping always outside the old lady’s door to listen to her breathing, and, after that, there was always a long interval of silence, before she could be heard, coming up the stairs, slowly and carefully, with the tray. She always opened the door of the darkened room quietly, so that she shouldn’t startle her grandmother, in spite of the fact that she invariably found the old lady wide awake. Then she went at once about the hated business of admitting a little light into the room with as little fresh air as possible. She had first to pull up the shade, which never would roll properly but had to be jerked up and down a number of times, then to unlock the window and prop it up with a stick while she struggled with the rusty catches and flung open the shutters. She set the tray by the bedside with the unvarying question: “How are you this morning, Grandma?” with a sort of professional cheerfulness. “Did you have a good night?” “Very poor, my dear,” the old lady would usually reply. Minnie would say that she was _very_ sorry, and after asking if there were anything else needed, would go on her way, not really at all sorry or disturbed. She had no idea what a “poor night” meant; she had never experienced one, never tried to imagine one. All her grandmother’s ailments were remote, vague and without interest for her. Her sole concern was to do her duty. This done, she proceeded to wake Frances, and while she was dressing, got ready their own breakfast in the kitchen. Frances usually found her preparing an economical mixture of condensed milk and water for the cats, with old Michael standing at her side, looking up into her face, his pink mouth opening in a silent cry. The milk properly warmed, each animal bent its sleek little head over its familiar saucer, lapping steadily; now and then Michael looked up, licked his chops and seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and went on drinking.