f the aristocrat. "Is that Mr. Greely? Is he going past
the hotel?"

She took a step toward Jim, but Girlie held out her soft long hand.

"Give it to me. I'll ask him."

Sheila surrendered the note.

"You'd better get back to the dishes," said Girlie over her shoulder.
"Momma's kind of rushed this morning. She's helping Babe with her party
dress. I wouldn't 'a' put in my time writing notes to Dickie to-day if
I'd 'a' been you. Sort of risky."

She slid in through the jealous door and Sheila hurried along the hall to
the kitchen where there was an angry clash and clack of crockery.

The kitchen was furnished almost entirely with blue-flowered oilcloth;
the tables were covered with it, the floor was covered with it, the
shelves were draped in it. Cold struck up through the shining, clammy
surface underfoot so that while Sheila's face burned from the heat of the
stove her feet were icy. The back door was warped and let in a current of
frosty air over its sill, a draught that circled her ankles like cold
metal. On the table in the middle of the room, "Momma" had placed an
enormous tin dish-pan piled high with dirty dishes, over which she was
pouring the contents of the kettle. Steam rose in clouds, half-veiling
her big, fierce face which, seen through holes in the vapor, was like
that of a handsome, vulgar witch.

Through the steam she shot at Sheila a cruel look. "Aren't you planning
to do any work to-day, Sheila?" she asked in her voice of harsh,
monotonous accents. "Here it's nine o'clock and I ain't been able to do a
stroke to Babe's dress. I dunno what you was designed for in this
house--an ornament on the parlor mantel, I guess."

Sheila's heart suffered one of the terrible swift enlargements of angry
youth. It seemed to fill her chest and stop her breath, forcing water
into her eyes. She could not speak, went quickly up and took the kettle
from "Momma's" red hand.

The table at which dish-washing was done, was inconveniently high. When
the big dishpan with its piled dishes topped it, Sheila's arms and back
were strained over her work. She usually pulled up a box on which she
stood, but now she went to work blindly, her teeth clenched, her flexible
red lips set close to cover them. The Celtic fire of her Irish blood gave
her eyes a sort of phosphorescent glitter. "Momma" looked at her.

"Don't show temper!" she said. "What were you doin'? Upstairs work?"

"I was writing a letter," said Sheila in a low voic