She carried the bundles to her room, where she sorted the linen into piles on her bed. She had no list; she remembered Mrs. O'Lay at the door, last Monday, "The laundry boy's here, Mis' Hammond. Should I now just scramble together what I can put my hands on?" and her own indifferent answer. Five sheets. That seemed reasonable. And bath towels--that one was going. Catherine held it up to the light, poked her fingers through the shredded fabric, and tossed it to the floor. We need more of everything, she thought. Sheets--she stared at the neat white squares. If she unfolded them, probably she would find more shreds. Well, she wouldn't look! They cost so much, sheets and towels, and you had so little fun for your money. She stowed away the piles in the linen drawers. Then she opened the bundle of clothing, unironed, tight, wrinkled lumps. Mrs. O'Lay would iron them. Little undergarments, small strings of stockings. At least she didn't have to mend them; Miss Kelly was keeping them in order. She shook out a pajama coat; a jagged hole in the front whence a button had departed forcibly. She would have to mend Charles up. She chuckled; before she had gone away she had bought new socks for Charles, hiding those she had not found time to darn. He would never notice. She was rolling a pair of socks into a neat ball, turning the ribbed cuff down to hold the ball, when she stopped. One finger flicked absently at a bit of gray lint. What was she going to do? She was sorting those clothes quite as if Mrs. O'Lay and Miss Kelly were fixtures. And she wasn't sure she had money enough to pay Miss Kelly for even one more week. She piled away the clothing, dodging her thoughts. But when she had finished her task, she stood at the window, looking out at the court windows, and one by one her thoughts overtook her and assaulted her. Of course I'm going back to the Bureau, the very day Spencer goes to school again. There's no new reason why I shouldn't. Isn't there? What about this feeling--that Spencer was a warning to me--a sign? That's what mother meant. Her hand lifted to her forehead, smoothed back her hair. That's not decent thinking, she went on. Absurd. Superstitious. Spencer might have been hurt even if I had been at his heels. Walter was hurt. Accidents--like a bony, threatening finger shaken at her! "Moth-er!" Spencer's voice summoned her. Mr. Bill was going now, but he left the radio for Spencer to examine, and a book about it. "An' he's going to see the superintendent about wires to catch things on, and we can't rig it truly until he gets a wire." Spencer clasped the book under one arm, and drew the black box nearer him along the table. "It's the most inturusting thing I ever saw, Mother." His eyes were bright with pleasure. "I'm sorry," said Bill, "that we can't install it to-night. But perhaps to-morrow----" Catherine went to the door with Bill. "It was good of you to come in," she said. "He's had a dull time." Bill had his hand on the knob.