"Mother! Come with us. Daddy's coming!" Spencer and Marian tugged at her arms, and Letty pulled at her skirt. "I can't, chickens." Catherine hugged them, each one. She loved the exuberance of their greeting, the sharp delight of contrast after the hours away. "Miss Kelly is all ready." She glanced at Miss Kelly's serene face. "Flora hasn't shown up? Nor sent word? I'll have to look her up. To-morrow perhaps I can go." "I gave the children their lunch," explained Miss Kelly, "but of course I had no time to set the kitchen to rights." She certainly hadn't. Catherine gave one dismayed look at the disorder, and decided to hunt for Flora first. She must be sick. V Catherine tried to pick a firm way through the slush of the sidewalk. Flora must live in this block. She peered at the numbers over dark doorways, under the sagging zigzags of fire escapes. The snow had been thrown up in a dirty barricade along the edge of the walk, and over the upset garbage and ash cans, down the short mounds, shrieked and wailed and coasted innumerable children. It was like a diminutive and distorted minstrel show, thought Catherine, stepping hastily out of the path of a small black baby spinning down into the slush on a battered tin tray. Snow on the East Side, and on the Drive--she had a wry picture of the beauty of the morning. There. 91-A. She stood at the entrance, with a hesitant glance into the dim hall. Absurd to be nervous about entering. She had never seen where Flora lived, although she had heard the dirge of rising rent and lack of repairs which Flora occasionally intoned. She walked to the first door and knocked boldly. "Who dar?" The voice bellowed through the door. "Does Mrs. Flora Lopez live in this house?" Catherine had a notion that the dim house gave a flutter of curiosity, as if doors moved cautiously ajar. "I'm Mrs. Hammond," she added sharply to the closed door. "She works for me." The door swung open a crack, and a fat dusky face appeared, one white eye gleaming. "You wants Mis' Flora Lopez?" "Do you know her? Which is her flat?" "Sure I knows her." The round eye held her in hostile inspection. "Is you f'om the police station, too?" "No. She works for me. Is she sick?" Queer, how that sense of listening enmity flowed down the crooked stairway. "Which is her flat?" "She ain't sick, exac'ly. Ain't she come to wuk to-day?" "Who zat, want Flora?" The voice came richly down the stairway. "Which is her flat?" insisted Catherine. The door opened wider, disclosing a ponderous figure with great soft hips and bosom, a small child in a torn red sweater clinging to her skirts and looking up with round frightened eyes. "She lives on the top flo' rear. I donno as she's home."