There was Mr. Flitch sitting alone on his front porch, with his heels cocked up on the banister. This meant that he was in a state of rebellion, because he never stuck his feet on to this immaculately white banister if he was in a proper frame of mind. It also meant that Mrs. Flitch had her feelings hurt again and was probably in her room suffering from this ailment. She had heard that the Flitches did not get on well together. In her opinion this was Ella Flitch’s fault. You could not live diagonally across the street from a waspish woman and belong to the same missionary society without knowing that she was waspish. I am writing this into the record--it was no part of Mrs. Adams’ reflections--that if you are a woman you always blame the wife for her marital unhappiness; if you are a man you know, of course, that the husband is at fault, even if you listen cordially to your own wife when she is taking the contrary view. Mrs. Adams turned her neat, little, gray head slowly, surreptitiously and took a swift glance up the street at the Cutter residence. Then she turned it back again. But she had read all the news up there to be seen with the naked eye, assisted by powerful spectacles. Mr. and Mrs. Cutter were seated comfortably in their respective porch chairs. And George was out in the swing, elegantly folded into a sitting posture where he commanded a view of her front porch. If you are the mother of a daughter, you notice such little circumstances whether they mean anything or not, because they may be very significant. The sight of this young man sentinel reminded her of something. Where was Helen? What was she doing so long inside? She arose at once and went in to see about this. “Helen!” she called from the hall. No answer. She walked heavily to the closed bedroom door and knocked authoritatively. No answer. Not a sound. “Helen, are you in there?” “Yes, mother,” came the faint reply. “What are you doing?” “Nothing,” in a wailing, muffled voice, as if this person who was doing “nothing” was being smothered. Mrs. Cutter thrust the door open and went in. She was astounded. Her daughter lay face downward across the bed, with her arms wound above her head in two beautifully curved lines of mute despair. Two pretty legs extended stiffly beyond the uttermost that skirts could do to cover them. One slippered foot worked slowly as you move a foot in pain, and at quick intervals the slender form rose and fell convulsively to the passionate rhythm of sobs. “What on earth is the matter?” the mother exclaimed. “Nothing.” “Are you ill?” “No.” “Has anything happened?” “Not a thing.” “Why are you crying?” “I don’t know. Oh, mother, I just want to be left alone”--followed by another paroxysm of weeping. Mrs. Adams waited grimly until the distressing convulsions of the slender young body subsided. Then she began again: “Well, you can’t be left in this fix. Turn over, Helen. You are mussing your dress.”