The door creaked open and Sylvia, carrying food, came in. She looked at her mother and saw a rather worn-out, emaciated woman with big eyes that seemed somehow hot. The spectacle displeased her. It went ill with her desire to eat her dinner. The room was musty, close, clinging. The woman in bed seemed similar in color, in mood, in nature. And even to Sylvia, the new old thing in the Family cradle was an irritating repetition. She looked on her mother as in some pitiful way responsible, yet helpless; a sort of fated carrier for some objectionable germ. “Thank you, Sylvia,” said Mrs. Burt as the child placed the dish before her. And then, she waited--as if for a greeting more desired than food. Sylvia stepped to the door. She hesitated. “Anything else, Mama?” she asked, miserable in this dull chamber of life. “Nothing, thank you.” The child closed the door gingerly behind her. And Sarah Burt, inured to a great want beyond the luxury of denying herself a lesser one, began her meal. There was a long silent wait. The woman heard the burr of the fine rain on her window, the plash of a horse, the pierce of a passing voice. She heard her jaws, the faint crack in her ears as she swallowed. Ceasing, she heard her own breath. Holding it, she heard the breath of her child. Once, a fragment of crude rumble came from below--a shattering remark of her husband. She placed the empty plate on the floor beside her bed. Now, she heard the glow of the lamp; she heard the interminable rotting of the curtains, the ancient cabinet--the slow, measured swing of inanimate life. And then, rocked in the stifled rhythm of her room, she fell asleep. When she awoke, her husband was standing beside her bed. “Hello, Josiah,” she exclaimed in a high voice. “I must have dozed off.” What she feared was that he might think he had awakened her. That would irritate him. She must appear at once to have been expecting him, yet not to have been painfully expecting him; to be ill yet not to be unpleasantly ill; to fear him yet not to be afraid of him. So subtle a permutation is commonplace in the arithmetic of woman. “How are you?” asked Josiah. “I’m much better, dear. I’ll be up, tomorrow. I’ve told Christine. Do you want to come to bed?” Her pleasure at his interest had made her voluble. Josiah looked at her a moment. His eyes travelled to the cradle. Then, he spoke. “That’s what I wanted to speak to you about. I ain’t got much money, these days. But I’ve bought two single beds. They’ll be here tomorrow. They cost me twenty dollars. But they’ll be a good investment, even if I don’t get a cent for this one. Go to sleep now. I’m going to spend the night at the Inn.” He left the room. This was the mother of Quincy. II