"Did he come?" "Yes." "What did he say?" "He called it collapse." "How clever of him!" "I have left the tea-things for you to wash, and will you please get supper?" "You needn't talk like that. I'm willing to do my share." "You shirked it today, and though I know you're frightened of her, that's no excuse for leaving me alone." Miriam leaned on the table and asked in a gentler voice, "Is she likely to be ill long?" "It's very likely." "Well, we shan't miss her while you are with us, but it's a pity, when we might have peace. You're just like her. I hope you'll never have any children, for they'd be as miserable as I am, only there wouldn't be one like me. How could there be? One only has to think of Zebedee." Helen stood up and brought her hand so heavily to the table that the lamplight flared. "Go!" she said, "go--" Her voice and body shook, her arms slid limply over her mending, and she tumbled into her chair, crying with sobs that seemed to quaver for a long time in her breast. Miriam could not have imagined such a weeping, and it frightened her. With one finger she touched Helen's shoulder, and over and over again she said, "I'm sorry, Helen. I'm sorry. Don't cry. I'm sorry--" until she heard Rupert whistling on the track. At that Helen stirred and wiped her eyes, but Miriam darted from the room, shouted cheerfully to Rupert and, keeping him in talk, led him to the dining-room, while Helen sat staring with blurred eyes at the linen pile, and seeing the misery in Mildred Caniper's face. CHAPTER XX