"Well, what was I saying so much, Mrs. Schum? Can I help it he says she's an angel? Here, Harry, you can have it. Mamma's got a whole basket of apples in the closet and a dozen oranges. Honest, take it, I'm not hungry." He would mouth into it, round eyes gazing at her above the rim of crust. There were times again when Lilly would bare her teeth and crunch them in a paroxysm of rage and tyranny over little Harry. She would delight in making herself terrible to him, pinch and tower over the huddle of him with her hands hooked inward like talons. His meekness hurt her to frenzy, and because she was ashamed of tears she clawed. "Oh, you! You! You just make me feel like--I don't know what." "Ouch! Lilly, you pinch!" "Well, then, don't always hold your head off to one side like somebody was going to hit you. I hate it. It makes me feel like wanting to hit you." "I won't." "You aren't such a goody-goody. You steal. You stole some balls of twine my papa brought home from his factory. Mamma says you got it behind your ears." "I haven't anything behind my ears." "Oh, silly! Everything isn't there just because you say it's there. If I close my eyes just a little eeny, I can see birds and fountains and a beautiful stage, and me with my hair all gold, and a blue satin train that kicks back when I walk, and all the music in the world winding around me like--like everything--like smoke. But it isn't truly there, silly, except inside of me." "Haw." "I'm going to be the beautifulest singer in the world some day, with a voice that goes as high as anything, and be on the stage, and you can't even be on it with me." "'N' I'm going to work in a butcher shop and give gramaw all the meat she wants without even putting it down in the book." "You steal." "Don't." "Do." "And I won't ever have to touch the meat if it's got blood on." "Fraidy, scared of a little blood." Then with not a great deal of relevance, "I could have the yellowest hair in the world if I wanted to." "How?" "Oh, by just wanting to." "Nit." "Could." "Your mamma's calling you." "Lil-ly, come practice." "I'm coming." To Harry, "I can do something you can't do." "What?" "Hop up six stairs on one foot." "Dare you." Ankle cupped in her hand, brown braids bobbing, she would thus essay two, three, even four steps of staggering ascent, collapsing then against the banister. "Ouch!" "Told you so." "Well, I nearly did." "Oh, you _nearly_ do everything." "I can't help it if my foot isn't strong enough to hold me." "Lil-ly, don't let me have to call you again." "I'm coming, mamma." And then for a final tantalizing gleam of her little self across the banister, "Last tag." CHAPTER II One wall of the Becker back parlor was darkly composed of walnut folding doors dividing it from the front-parlor bachelor apartment of Mr. Hazzard, city salesman for the J.D. Nichols Fancy Grocery Supply Company, his own horse and buggy furnished by the firm.