ed to her to be a long time,
with plodding, heavy step. She was not conscious of being tired. She
came to a park bench and sat down, feeling very abused, and lonely and
agonized. This was what she had come to in her old days. It was for this
you bore children, and brought them up and sacrificed for them. How
right they were--Mrs. Lamb, Mrs. Brunswick, and Mrs. Wormser. Useless.
Unconsidered. In the way.

By degrees she grew calmer. Her brain cooled as her fevered old body
lost the heat of anger. Lil had looked kind of sick. Perhaps ... and how
worried Hugo had looked....

Feeling suddenly impelled she got up from the bench and started toward
home. Her walk, which had seemed interminable, had really lasted
scarcely more than half an hour. She had sat in the park scarcely
fifteen minutes. Altogether her flight had been, perhaps, an hour in
duration.

She had her latchkey in her pocket. She opened the door softly. The
place was in darkness. Voices from the front bedroom, and the sound of
someone sobbing, as though spent. Old lady Mandle's face hardened again.
The door of the front bedroom was closed. Plotting against her! She
crouched there in the hall, listening. Lil's voice, hoarse with sobs.

"I've tried and tried. But she hates me. Nothing I do suits her. If it
wasn't for the baby coming sometimes I think I'd--"

"You're just nervous and excited, Lil. It'll come out all right. She's
an old lady--"

"I know it. I know it. I've said that a million times in the last year
and a half. But that doesn't excuse everything, does it? Is that any
reason why she should spoil our lives? It isn't fair. It isn't fair!"

"Sh! Don't cry like that, dear. Don't! You'll only make yourself sick."

Her sobs again, racking, choking, and the gentle murmur of his soothing
endearments. Then, unexpectedly, a little, high-pitched laugh through
the tears.

"No, I'm not hysterical. I--it just struck me funny. I was just
wondering if I might be like that. When I grow old, and my son marries,
maybe I'll think everything his wife does is wrong. I suppose if we love
them too much we really harm them. I suppose--"

"Oh, it's going to be a son, is it?"

"Yes."

Another silence. Then: "Come, dear. Bathe your poor eyes. You're all
worn out from crying. Why, sweetheart, I don't believe I ever saw you
cry before."

"I know it. I feel better now. I wish crying could make it all right.
I'm sorry. She's so old, dear. That's the trouble. They li