"That doesn't mean anything, and you know it. You owe that note to Mr. Lockwood, don't you? And you can't pay it?" "Not to-day, Betty, but he'll give me a little more time, I'm sure. He's kind, very kind." "You don't know him. He's as mean--as mean as dirt--as mean as Josie." "Betty!" "Then if you did get any money you'd have to give it to him, wouldn't you?" "Yes, but--I'm sure--I think it'll come all right." "Ah, what's the use of talkin' that way? What's the use of talkin' at all? I know you can't do anything for me, and so do you!" Sam had dropped into his chair, unable to stand before this storm; he stared now, mute with amazement, at this child who had so long, so uncomplainingly, shared his poverty and privations, grown suddenly to the stature of a woman--and a tormented, passionate woman, stung to the quick by the injustice of her lot. He put out a hand in a feeble gesture of placation, but she brushed it away as she bent toward him, speaking so quickly that her words stumbled and ran into one another. "I can't understand it!" she raged. "Why is it that I have to be more shabby than any other girl in town? Why is it that the others have all the fun and I all the drudgery? Why is it that I can't ever go anywhere with the boys and girls and laugh and--and have a good time like the rest do?..." Sam bent his head to the blast. In his lap his hands worked nervously. But he could not answer her. "It ain't that I mind the cookin' and doin' the housework and--all the rest--but--why is it you can never give me anything at all? Why must it be that everyone looks down on us and sneers and laughs at us? Why is it that half the time we haven't got enough to eat?... Other men manage to take care of their families and give their children things to wear. You've got only us two to look after, and you can't even do that. It isn't right, it isn't decent, and if I were you I'd be ashamed of myself--!" Her temper had spent itself, and with this final cry she checked abruptly, with a catch at her breath for shame of what she had let herself say. But, childlike, she was not ready to own her sorrow; and she turned her back, trembling. Sam, too, was shaken. In his heart he knew there was justification for her indictment, truth in what she had said. And he was heartbroken for her. He got up unsteadily and put a gentle hand upon her shoulder. "Why, Betty--I--I--" A dry sob interrupted him. He pulled himself together and forced his voice to a tone of confidence. "Just be a little patient, dear. I'm sure things will be better with us, soon. Just a little more patience-- that's all... Why, there was a gentleman here this morning, from Noo York City, talkin' about an invention of mine." The girl moved restlessly, shaking off his hand. "Invention!" she echoed bitterly. "Oh, father! Everybody knows they're no good. You've been wastin' time on 'em ever since I can remember, and you've never made a dollar out of one yet."