"Shut up! Shut up!" shrieked Letty, dancing on her toes, and pulling at Catherine's hand. "Shut up!" Catherine, who had been caught in a tight knot of confused thought by Henrietta's final mockery, "You won't come down for weeks, I know. And here's your job, waiting for you! You can't break through!" came back with a little start. Spencer was staring dolefully down the lane; Marian hovered at his smeared elbow, ready to taunt him again if he stayed silent; Letty pranced as if she wanted to say, "Sic 'em!" Catherine smiled. She knew how they felt. The arrival of the Gilberts was a large stone dropped into the smooth evenness of their days. Their departure--she couldn't carry on that figure, but she knew the emptiness it left, a funny little sickish feeling, almost a fear lest the days would stay empty. "Well, isn't he a dirty pig, Muvver?" "You hush up!" Spencer flushed as Catherine's grave eyes rested on his. "Amelia says she wants some peas picked. The basket is in the woodshed." "I picked 'em last," said Marian. "You never did!" Spencer's anger bubbled up. "You----" "And some potatoes," continued Catherine, calmly. "If you aren't too cantankerous, Spencer might dig those, and Marian might pick the peas." Spencer dug his toe into the turf. "Letty dig!" Letty pulled at Catherine's hand, her lower lip piteously imploring. "Letty dig, Muddie!" "I have some letters to write." Catherine picked up Letty and started for the house. "I hope you two can see to the vegetables." With a brief glance as she opened the door, she saw Spencer with a gruff "Aw, come along!" heading for the woodshed. Letty twisted and squirmed in her arms. "Dig!" she declared. "You can dig in your sand pile." Catherine set her down. "Where is your red pail? You find that, while I find my pen." * * * * * She couldn't go back to town before school opened. Her pen made tiny involved triangles at the edge of the blotter. Charles wouldn't like it if she brought the children down so early. Still, that would give her a few days to set the house in order, to find a woman to take her place. What a queer thought! Henrietta had one in mind, she had said, a sort of practical nurse and housekeeper. There were the children's clothes to see to. When could she do that? She wouldn't have time for sewing. She dropped her head down on the table, her hands clasped under her forehead. I can't do it, she thought. Too many things. _Things!_ That's it. Clothes, and laundry, and dirt in the corners. One hand groped out for the letter from Dr. Roberts, and she lifted her head. Her mouth set in a hard, thin line; the smears under her gray eyes made them larger, weary with a kind of desperation. "I remember so well your admirable work," he had written. "I can think of no one with whom I should prefer to entrust this new piece of work." If I don't do it now, I never will, she thought. Never. Perhaps I haven't the courage, or the endurance.