"Why," said Myrtie, in an awed whisper, "it's Agnes Cadara--in her _mourning_." Until she turned around, he wouldn't believe it. "Well," said he to Myrtie, "it's a pity more women haven't got something to mourn about." "Yes," breathed Myrtie, "isn't she _wonderful_?" Agnes's mourning had been given her by young Mrs. MacCrea who lived up on the hill and was herself just finishing mourning. It seemed Mrs. MacCrea and Agnes were built a good deal alike--though you never would have suspected it before Agnes began to mourn. Mrs. MacCrea was from New York, and these clothes had been made by a woman Mrs. MacCrea called by her first name. Well, maybe she was a woman you'd call by her first name, but she certainly did have a way of making you look as if you weren't native to the place you were born in. Before Agnes Cadara had anything to mourn about she was simply "one of those good-looking Portuguese girls." There were too many of them in Cape's End to get excited about any of them. One day he heard some women on the beach talking about how these clothes had "found" Agnes--as if she had been lost. Mrs. MacCrea showed Agnes how to do her hair in a way that went with her clothes. One noon when Joe got home early because it rained and he couldn't paint, when he went up-stairs he saw Myrtie trying to do this to _her_ hair. Well, it just couldn't be _done_ to Myrtie's hair. Myrtie didn't have hair you could do what you pleased with. She was all red in the face with trying, and being upset because she couldn't do it. He had to laugh--and that didn't help things a bit. So he said: "Never mind, Myrtie, we can't all go into mourning." "Well, I don't care," said Myrtie, sniffling, "it's not fair." He had to laugh again and as she didn't see what there was to laugh at, he had to try to console again. "Never mind, Myrt," said he, "you've got _one_ thing Agnes Cadara's not got." "I'd like to know what," said Myrtie, jerking at her hair. He waited; funny she didn't think of it herself. "Why--a father," said he. "Oh," said Myrtie--the way you do when you don't know _what_ to say. And then, "_Well_,----" Again he waited--then laughed; waited again, then turned away. Somebody gave Mrs. Cadara a fireless cooker. Mrs. Doane had no fireless cooker. So she had to stand all day over her hot stove--and this she spoke of often. "My supper's in the fireless cooker," Mrs. Cadara would say, and stay out in the cool yard, weeding her flowerbed bed. "It certainly would be nice to have one of those fireless cookers," Mrs. Doane would say, as she put a meal on the table and wiped her brow with her apron. "Well, why don't you kill your husband?" Joe Doane would retort. "Now, if only you didn't have a _husband_--you could have a fireless cooker."