"But it's ruined, utterly ruined!" "Yes, ma'am." "And you have n't any other that's really decent!" "No, ma'am." The woman sighed impatiently. "Helen, how can you answer like that when you _know_ what it means to spoil that hat? Can't _anything_ dampen your absurd high spirits?" "'High spirits'!" breathed the girl. A quick flash leaped to her eyes. Her lips parted angrily; then, as suddenly, they snapped close shut. In another minute she had turned and left the room quietly. Clothed in dry garments a little later, Helen set about the evening's tasks. At the first turn in the little room that served for both kitchen and dining-room she found the dinner dishes waiting to be cleared from the table--and there were unmistakable evidences of codfish-and-cream. As she expected, she had not long to wait. "Helen," called a doleful voice from the sitting-room. "Yes, mother." "She brought codfish again to-day--five times this week; and you _know_ how I dislike codfish!" "Yes, I know, dear. I'm so sorry!" "'Sorry'! But that does n't feed me. You _must_ speak to her, Helen. I _can't_ eat codfish like that. You must speak to-night when you take the dishes back." "Very well, mother; but--well, you know we don't pay very much." "Then pay more. I'm sure I shouldn't think you'd grudge me enough to eat, Helen." "Mother! How can you say a thing like that!" Helen's voice shook. She paused a moment, a dish half-dried in her hands; but from the other room came only silence. Supper that night was prepared with unusual care. There was hot corncake, too,--Mrs. Raymond liked hot corncake. It was a little late, it is true; Helen had not planned for the corncake at first--but there was the codfish. If the poor dear had had nothing but codfish! . . . Helen opened a jar of the treasured peach preserves, too; indeed, the entire supper table from the courageous little fern in the middle to the "company china" cup at Mrs. Raymond's plate was a remorseful apology for that midday codfish. If Mrs. Raymond noticed this, she gave no sign. Without comment, she ate the corncake and the peach preserves, and drank her tea from the china cup; with Mrs. Raymond only the codfish of one's daily life merited comment. It was at the supper table that Helen's mother brought out the letter. "You don't ask, nor seem to care," she began with a curious air of injured triumph, "but I've got a letter from Herbert." The younger woman flushed. "Why, of course, I care," she retorted cheerily. "What does he say?" "He wrote it several days ago. It got missent. But it's such a nice letter!" "They always are." "It asks particularly how I am, and says he's sorry I have to suffer so. _He_ cares." Only the swift red in Helen's cheeks showed that the daughter understood the emphasis. "Of course he cares," she answered smoothly. "And he sent me a present, too--money!" Mrs. Raymond's usually fretful whine carried a ring of exultation.