“I can’t move my line, because the rain’s made it too tight,” said Mrs. McGibney, “but we can hang up the wash here to dry. Ironing-board? Ironing-board, how are you!” She pounced upon the huge turnip, seizing turnip-tops, plucking them apart. “No, but we can make you comfortable in the front room, Clara.” Sheet spread out and wash in a mound. “And you’ve carried this with you all the way through the streets? I’ll fix up lines.” Two parallel lines, rigged up one from each end of the table to the opposite wall, sheets thrown over them; kitchen looking like Monday morning in your back yard. Room divided into three compartments: Clara in one, by the door; middle one, including the table, reserved for Mrs. McGibney; McGibney isolated in the third. Mrs. McGibney hung wash on the backs of chairs, and, forgetting how picture frames collect dust, jumped up at comers of picture frames, with more wash. Then she returned to her chair, which was in the middle compartment. “Not bothering you too much,” began timid Clara. An expression of pain suddenly shot across her broad face. “Oh,” she breathed, “I guess that must be the tintypes! Anyway, don’t bother about me. Oh! yes, I’m sure it’s the tintypes. Tintypes has such sharp corners, even if there is pink paper frames to them. I had nowhere else to carry my belongings, which I’d not leave behind, as I have flew the coop on him.” Clara stuck one foot out and lifted her skirt somewhat. Untied a handkerchief from somewhere, though I have heard that the material is usually more elastic—never mind; in a most matter-of-fact way, Clara untied the handkerchief. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, and very serious about it, she delved and drew forth an alarm clock, a comb, shoe-strings, a looking-glass, a tea-strainer, a box of matches, the tintypes—— “It was the tintypes!” cried Clara. “I knew, because they got such sharp corners and was sticking me, all the way over, most every step I took.” Mrs. McGibney and McGibney, who drew his sheet aside, stared at the astonishing collection on the table and then laughed heartily. Clara, looking calm and unintelligent, drew forth a can of baking powder. Nothing to laugh at could she see, but the others seemed amused, so she smiled sympathetically with them. “Yes,” said Clara, no longer timid, for it was her way to be awkward at first and then feel as much at home as anybody, “I’ve flew the coop on him forever. I’ve said I meant it before, but this time I do mean it. And he can be so nice when he wants to be. You know that yourself, Mrs. McGibney.” “He always seemed a perfect little gentleman whenever I saw him,” declared Mrs. McGibney. “It’s a shame you two can’t get along better!” was heard from behind McGibney’s sheet. “I’ve always found Tommy all right.”