“Don’t you want me to be sorry for you, dear?” Pidge trailed. “Why, I haven’t been nearly so good as I meant to be----” “Well, you dam’ little itch-face--talking to me about being sorry. Who’n heller-you to tell me about being sorry? Who’n heller-you to talk to me about me gettin’ penned in an’ Albert missin’, when you can’t keep your own man--when you don’t carry your own babies? Who’n heller-you anyway?” Then Fanny got down to business and spoke of life in the here and now. “Never mind, dear,” said Pidge. “We can’t attend to everything. I’m going out to get you some ice cream. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She was in the street. She brought back a paper pail without haste. Fanny had begun to cry. “Don’t feel badly,” Pidge said, washing a saucer and spoon. Fanny cried on. Pidge served her a large dish, and a smaller one for the older child. Then from the paper, she spooned tiny mouthfuls into the face in the crib--spooned until there was sleep from the novel coolness of the sweet. Then Pidge patted Fanny’s shoulder, as she passed out, promising to come back some time to-morrow. Upstairs she found Rufe, shirt open at the throat, standing by the back window. The light in the room was heavily shaded. He looked to her covertly, half expectantly. “Want to read something?” he said in a pleasant tone. “No. I’m going to bed,” said Pidge. XXX THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE EARLY the next morning in the shadowy back room, Pidge moved softly about as she dressed. She saw the new golf suit, and her lips twisted into a smile. Another toy; another bit of acting. That was all of the game he cared for--the clothes that went with it. She thought of the night on the corner when the newsboy had pointed out Rufe as a movie actor. She saw his desk by the window. It looked like a troubled face. Here she was, as usual, furiously busy with his faults--so occupied that he didn’t have to bother at all, sleeping serenely on. But he didn’t understand, never could understand, that her agony was because she saw them as part of herself; that in her own heart she couldn’t free herself from responsibility; knowing deeply the _dis_-ease that comes from that soul-deep question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” And there he was lying on his back, innocent as a child. The pain darted into her heart ... the baby carriage at Santa Monica. His complexion was almost as fresh, his black hair brushed back. It was as if he had fallen asleep with a tear in his eyes, for a little penciling of salt was on the thin blue-veined skin under the eyelid. His breast was uncovered and that spoiled the picture, spoiled the pathos; for Rufe, though the least athletic of men, was hairy and glad of it.