For a time there was silence, while Martha worked industriously, and Cora fumbled along with just enough appearance of energy to escape being "hauled over the coals" for laziness. Presently, however, Mrs. Slawson paused. "Do you know," she announced cheerfully, "I believe you’d feel a whole lot more like attendin’ strickly to business if I kinda relieved you o’ what you got under your apron." Cora looked scared. "Wha-at?" she stammered. Her mother’s expression continued bland. "Yes. It won’t trouble _me_ a mite, an’ it’s just a-burdenin’ you. Nobody can give her mind to a job when she’s hankerin’ after somethin’ else. Is it a book, now, or what is it?" Cora began to cry. "I think you’re real mean. I ain’t doin’ any harm. I’m workin’ all right. I can’t have a single thing, but you want to see it." "Sure you can’t," admitted Martha imperturbably. "You mayn’t believe it, but a mother’s got a reel sorta friendly interest in her childern. If a mother _keeps in touch_, as Mrs. Sherman says, with her childern’s minds, it saves her a lot o’ keepin’ in touch with their bodies, by the aid of a switch, or the flat of her hand, as the case may be. Now, your mind’s on what you got under your apron, so let me get right in touch with it, like a little lady." With a dismal wail that caused Flicker’s ears to prick up apprehensively, Cora thrust her hand under her apron, and brought forth an illustrated periodical. "Hand it over!" commanded her mother serenely. Cora handed it over. Martha examined the title-page. "’THE INGLE-NOOK’! Now what under the sun is a Ingle-Nook, I should like to know! ’THE INGLE-NOOK. Containing Dora Dean Beebe’s Greatest Story: SWEET SIBYL OF THE SWEAT-SHOP, or, THE MILLIONAIRE’S MATE.’ Dear me! Where’d you get aholt o’ this treasure? Sund’ School Lib’ry?" "No!" blubbered Cora, recognizing the fact that her mother’s question was meant to be answered. "Where?" "Ann Upton. Ann found it up to her house. It b’longs to her mother." "Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "No wonder Mrs. Upton makes Ann stylish clo’es. If this is the sorta litherchure she improves her mind on, I can see why she feels about a good many things the way she does. The name of it, alone, is enough to make you neglect your work. I don’t wonder you’re longin’ to shake Miss Claire’s curtains, for to be findin’ out about sweet Sibyl an’ how she got a-holt o’ one o’ them grand millionaire gen’lmen, that’s always hangin’ ’round sweat-shops, huntin’ for mates. It’s bound to be a movin’ story. It couldn’t help it. Lemme see! What’s this? "’The ruffian eyed sweet Sibyl men’"—Martha hesitated before the elaborate, unfamiliar word confronting her—"’men-_ac_ingly. "Have a care!" he hissed through his clinch-ed teeth.’ (Doncher worry, I got one, an’ then some! I’d ’a’ said, if I’d ’a’ been Sweet Sibyl.)