Dusk entered the little apartment and crowded the furniture into phantoms; a red signal light from the skeleton of the elevated road threw a glow as mellow as firelight across the mantelpiece. Mrs. Ginsburg's canary rustled himself until he swelled up twice too fat and performed the ever-amazing ritual of thrusting his head within himself as if he would prey on his own vitals. The cooler breath of night; the smells of neighboring food; the more frequent rushing of trains, and a navy-blue sky, pit-marked with small stars, came all at once. In the hallway Mrs. Ginsburg worked the hook of the telephone impatiently up and down. "Audubon 6879! Hello! Washeims' residence? Yetta? Yes, this is Carrie. Ain't it awful? I'm nearly dead with it. Yetta, Abie ain't feeling so well; so we won't be up to-night. No--it ain't nothing but the heat; but I worry enough, I can tell you." "Mamma, don't holler in the telephone so--she can't hear you when you scream." "It's always something, ain't it? That's what I tell him; but he's like his poor papa before him--he's afraid no one can do nothing but him; his little snip of a clerk he gives a vacation, but none for himself. I'm glad we ain't going then; you always make yourself so much trouble. It's too hot to eat, Abie says. Beef with horseradish sauce I had for supper, too--and apple-pie I baked in the heat for him; but not a bite will that boy eat! And when he don't eat I know he ain't feeling well. Who? Beulah? Ain't that grand? Yes, cooking is always good for a girl to know even if she don't need it. No; I go to work and thicken my gravy with flour and horseradish. Believe me, I cried enough when I did it! _Ach_, Yetta, why should I leave that boy? You can believe me when I tell you that not one night except when he was took in at the lodge--not one night since poor papa died--has that boy left me at home alone. Not one step will he take without me." "Aw, mamma!" "Sometimes I say, 'Abie, go out like other boys and see the girls.' But he thinks if he ain't home to fix the windows and the covers for my rheumatism it ain't right. Yes; believe me, when your children ain't feeling well it's worry enough." "Aw, maw, I can take you up to the Washeims' if you want to go." "You ought to hear him in there, Yetta--fussing because I want to keep him laying down. Yes, I go with you; to-morrow at nine I meet you down by Fulton Street. Up round here they're forty-two cents. Ain't it so? And I used two whites and a yolk in my pie-dough. Yes; I hope so too. If not I call a doctor. Nine o'clock! Good-by, Yetta." "Maw, for me you shouldn't stay home." Mrs. Ginsburg flopped into a rocker beside the flowered velvet couch. "A little broth, Abie?" "No." "When you don't eat it's something wrong." "You needn't fan me, mamma--I ain't hot now."