A little more rotund of figure, a little looser in the cheeks, and more patently crayoned and powdered about the eyes, a little more obviously painted and a little older, she was still the woman of the brewery's advertisement. But her forehead was knotted in deep, angry wrinkles; her under jaw was thrust so far forward that the roll of fat beneath it was invisible, and her eyes snapped with malice. Mary shrank back among the pillows. "Weren't you yellin'?" persisted Rose. "Did you lose your voice doin' it? What in the hell's the matter with you, I say?" With a sweep of her stout arm, she seized the girl's bare shoulder and shook it till Mary's teeth clicked like castanets. "I'm not goin' to have any such racket in my house!" the woman asseverated, as she plied her punishment. "You've got to learn first-off to keep your mouth to yourself, and be dead sure if you don't I'll give you a real beatin'." She tossed Mary from her, as if her victim had been a bundle of straw, and stood up again, arms akimbo, breathing scarcely beyond her normal speed. Mary was half mad and wholly sick with dread. She wanted to cry out for rescue and dared not. She wanted to rise and try to force the door or break open the shutters, but she could not move. She could only lie there panting for breath, with her mouth gasping and her heart hammering at her breast. She had closed her eyes. She opened them just in time to see Rose, whose slippered foot had touched something on the floor, stoop, pick up, and place beside the key in her bosom, a crumpled purple-bordered handkerchief. "Now then," said the woman in a tone that, if still hard, was at least less intense than its predecessor, "try to tell me what's the trouble, like somebody this side of Matteawan." With a supreme lunge at courage, Mary got her voice. "I want my clothes," she said dully. "And where's Max?" "Your clothes ain't fit to wear," said Rose; "an' I don't know where Max is. What you need is breakfast." "I want my clothes," monotonously repeated Mary. "I couldn't eat to save my life. Hasn't Max come back?" But Rose did not seem to hear the question. "Nonsense, honey," she said, her anger seeming now entirely passed. "Of course you must eat. I got up on purpose for it, and I've set that nigger cooking a perfect peach of a breakfast." "I want my clothes." Rose leaned over the bed and put a soothing hand upon her questioner's fevered forehead. "Now don't lose your nerve, dearie," she advised. "I'm your friend--honest, I am. You rest awhile and eat a little, and then maybe we'll talk things over." "He hasn't come yet?" "No, he hasn't. But why are you lettin' that jar you? Perhaps he's sick, too. Perhaps he's had some kind of a scrap with his old man. How do I know what's hit him? He'll show up all right in the end and, till he does show up, you just make yourself at home here and don't bother. I'll take care of you."