Sam, the elevator boy, didn't know a single lady as was out of work. Catherine went on down to the basement. Perhaps the janitor would know. He called his wife. Catherine, in the door, glimpsed the rooms with their short, high windows, full of white iron beds and innumerable tidies. Mrs. O'Lay filled the door, her bulk flowing unrestrictedly above and below her narrow apron strings. She had a mind to try the job herself. Her daughter had come home with a baby, and could mind the telephone when Sam was off, and all. Her double chins quivered violently at little Mr. O'Lay's protest. Right in the same house, an' all. "If I try it, he won't be all the time leaving the fires for me to tend, and I'll turn an honest penny myself." She's a fat straw to grasp at, thought Catherine. If she can get between the stove and the sink---- "Sure, I been cooking all these years, and himself ain't dead yet. Nor one of the eleven children. It'd be a fine change for me." They decided finally that Mrs. O'Lay should come up that afternoon to "learn the ropes." "I'd come up right now, but himself asked in his folks for dinner." What luck! Catherine hurried back to her own apartment. Her own rooms look neat, and she is at least a pair of hands. The children were waiting impetuously for Catherine to take them coasting. Marian had suggested Sunday School. Miss Kelly thought they should go, she explained. "Miss Kelly may take you, then, on her Sunday," said Catherine. "I can't, to-day. And I'm afraid the snow is almost gone." Spencer and Marian, their leggings already on, wiped the breakfast dishes, while Letty dragged a battered train up and down the hall. "You come too, Daddy." Marian tugged at Charles's arm. "No. I'm going to have a nice, quiet morning with my book." He stepped hastily out of the path of Letty's assault. "I've left the potatoes and roast on the shelf." Catherine looked in at his study door. "Could you think to light the oven and stick them in, at twelve, if we aren't back? Mother's coming in for dinner." "I'll remember." Marian giggled at her father's grimace, and they were off, the four of them. On the slope Catherine chose as safe, the snow had been worn thin by countless runners. Spencer and Marian had one Flyer, and Catherine drew Letty on the small sled up and down the walk, to the loud tune of "Gid-ap! horsey! Gid-ap!" until she was breathless and flushed. Then she coaxed Letty into the construction of a snow house, while she sat on the bench beside her. The river was gray under a lead sky; the steep shores of New Jersey were mottled tawny and white. Spencer and Marian puffed up the hill, to sit solemnly beside her, their legs dangling. Letty, a small scarlet ball in her knit bloomers and sweater, an aureole of yellow fluff about her round, pink face, crooned delightedly as she patted her lumps of snow. "An', Muvver," went on Marian, "the little boy made his dog drag the sled up the hill, and the doggie cried."