"Catherine"--Henrietta's face was grim under its fair placidity--"when I was sixteen, I saw my mother die in childbirth. She had eight children. Two of them are alive now. She was only thirty-three when she died. She died on a farm in Michigan, and my father thought she picked a poor time, because he was haying. I swore then I'd be something besides a female animal. William knew what I wanted. It's a fair deal to him. He knew he was getting a wife, but not a mother. That's all there is to that. I like you. When you fell for Charles so hard, I was afraid you were ended. Now I have hopes!" Her hand, firm and hard, shut about Catherine's. "Only, don't handicap yourself with this clutter of feelings." Something in the clutch of the firm fingers gave Catherine a quick insight. Henrietta wasn't hard! Not porcelain. A shell, over a warm, soft creature--a barnacle, hiding from injury as deep as that her childhood had shown her. "You're a nice old thing." Catherine laid her other hand over Henrietta's. "And"--she came back to her own maelstrom--"you think it will be fair to the children? I ought to be more decent--better for them--if I can get some self-respect." "That's talking. You write and take that job, instanter! I'll look around for a woman for you. When can you come down?" Henrietta withdrew her hand. "That's another thing." Catherine frowned. "Dr. Roberts says as soon as possible. School doesn't open, though, for two weeks. I don't like to drag the children back." "You see?" Henrietta made an impatient lunge with her foot. "I'll have to think that out." They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Henrietta rose. "I'm glad we blew in," she said. "But we have to start off early." "You've helped." Catherine stood in front of her friend, her hands clasped loosely. "I'll hunt you up in town, when I need an injection of common sense." She went through the quiet house, setting the screen in front of the crimson ash of the fire, turning down the lamp, hanging away the red sweater Letty had worn home, placing a row of damp little sandals on the kitchen steps where the morning sun would dry them. She stood there for a moment, looking off across the water. A huge crimson star hung low in the east; she thought she caught a flicker of reflection in the dark stretch of water. Perhaps it was only a late firefly. For hours she lay awake, staring out at the great birch tree, watching the faint motion of its leaves, and the slipping through them of the Big Dipper as it wheeled slowly down its arc. V They all stood in the sunshine in front of the house, watching the tan top of the Gilberts' car disappear into the alders. Spencer sighed ostentatiously. "Wisht we had a nottomobul," he said. "Mr. Bill let me help him squirt oil and I filled a grease cup and put it back." "Should say you did!" scoffed Marian. "Look at your sleeve! You're awful dirty." "Aw, shut up," growled Spencer.