The girl was fourteen, angular, blond, nervously put up. She left the room. Beside her place was a lad but a year younger--Josiah junior--with a dark face that wore a scowl of pathetic disillusion. And on the table’s farther flank sat three others: Marsden who was nine, Jonas who was six, Rhoda whose five years required her chair to be buttressed up by cushions. One mood joined them all--intentness upon dinner, indifference to all else. Mrs. Cripper doled out and sank into her chair. The prim dress was too tight, but it held. Sylvia returned, seated herself demurely and began to eat. Potatoes, doughnuts, tea were on the table. Mrs. Cripper helped the two youngest of those present; the others reached out for themselves. All ate what pleased them. No one spoke. And no one seemed adverse or uncomfortable, in the silence. Mrs. Cripper, at length, had news to impart: “Sarah’ll be gettin’ up, tomorrow.” Josiah took the news, as if stoically. Then, his eyes twinkled and he looked up. “So you’ll be goin’?” he observed. “Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Cripper was offended. “Oh, it probably’ll not be for long,” he appeased her. “I think this is all, Josiah.” “Thank God for that!” Bitter humor had precedence, in his tone, before the real hope. “Don’t take on that way.” The man examined the woman. A boiled potato stood on his fork. The brightness of his heavy-jowled face came out, as his lips curled. “I can understand why you’re against race-suicide. It’s your livin’.” Mrs. Cripper dropped her knife in protest. The rattling unleashed a repressed impulse in the man. A great fist fell on the flimsy table. “As for me--I’m sick and tired of the whole thing! I’m--” he changed his mood and added, “I’m a joke, I am!” And, as if with relentless logic, his face wreathed in a smile that was actually merry. Mrs. Cripper did not understand. She observed that Josiah was smiling. She did not like that. So she spoke to Sylvia: “Did you look in and see if Adelaide and Thomas was all right?” “They’re asleep--” said the young girl. “And Mama too?” “Guess so.” Once more came the more comfortable silence. This was the household into which Quincy was born. * * * * * The upper light, visible from the street through a pall of fog and a green shade and a drapery of curtain, came from a bedroom. Sarah lay propped up with pillows, her hair black and bronze against them. A lamp, shielded by a hand-embroidered guard--green on cream yellow--was on a table in the center of the room. The light fell on a faded carpet, the dun upholstered chairs, the wall papered in white with crimson flowers. In the shadows were the cabinet, the mantel littered with china ornament, and an old crib with its new burden of a much older story.