“About a year. He lost his position, and then wasn’t able to do anything for ever so long; and, when he got out of the hospital, he hunted and hunted, and there wasn’t anything for him. He got one good job; but they said he had to dress better, and he lost that.” Cornelia sank down on the floor again, and buried her face in her hands. “O Louie! And I was wearing nice clothes, and doing nothing to help! Oh, why didn’t mother let me know?” “Oh, mother kept saying she thought she could manage and it was father’s dream you should get your education,” quoted the little girl with dreamy eyes and the memory of many sacrifices sweetly upon her. “Go on, Louie; what next?” “Oh, nothing much. Mother sold the furniture to an ‘antique’ woman that was hunting old things; and that paid for father’s medicine, and they said they wouldn’t touch the money they had put in the bank for your college; and then father got the place at the factory. It’s kind of hard work, I guess; but it’s good pay, and father thought he’d manage to let you finish; only mother gave out, and then everything went to pieces.” The small, red lips puckered bravely, and suddenly the child threw her arms around her sister’s neck, and cried out, sobbing, “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come!” and Cornelia wrapped her close to her heart. Into the midst of this touching scene there stole a sweetly pungent odor of meat boiling dry, and suddenly Cornelia and Louise smelled it at the same instant, and flew for the stairs. “I guess it’s not really burned yet,” said wise Louise. “It doesn’t smell that way,” comfortingly. “My, it makes me hungry!” “And oh, my bread!” exclaimed Cornelia as she rounded the top of the next flight. “It ought to go into the oven. It will get too light.” They rescued the meat not at all hurt but just lusciously browned and most appetizing; and then they put the bread into the oven and turned their attention to potatoes and waffles. “I’m going to make some maple-syrup,” said Cornelia; “it’s better home-made. I bought a bottle of mapleine this morning. We used to make maple fudge with it, and it’s good.” “Isn’t this great?” exclaimed the little girl, watching the bubbling sugar and water. “Won’t father be glad?” “But, Louie, where is Carey?” asked Cornelia suddenly. The little girl’s face grew dark. “He’s off!” she said shortly. “I guess he didn’t come home at all last night. Father worries a lot about him, and mother did too; but he’s been worse since mother was sick. He hardly ever comes in till after midnight, and then he smokes and smokes. Oh, it makes me sick! I told Harry if he grew up that way I’d never speak to him. And Harry says, if he ever does, he gives me leave to turn him down. Oh, Carey acts like a nut! I don’t see how he can, when he knows how father has to work, and everything. He just won’t get a position anywhere. He wants to have a good time. He plays ball, and he rides around in a rich fellow’s car, and he has a girl! Oh, he’s the _limit_.”