see me. He says they're
having a deuce of a time getting people for their plays. Bates says to
stick 'em for a couple of hundred a week."

Martie placed small hope in such a hint, but she was glad he could.
When he had sauntered away, she would go on patiently, mixing the
baby's bottles, picking toys from the floor, tying and re-tying Ted's
shoe-laces. This was a woman's life. Martha Bannister was not a martyr;
nobody in the city could stop to help or pity her.

The hot summer shut down upon them, and the baby drooped, even though
Martie was careful to wheel her out into the shade by the river every
day. She herself drooped, staring at life helplessly, hopelessly. In
March there would be a third child.

After a restless night, the sun woke her, morning after morning,
glaring into her room at six. Wearily, languidly, she dressed the
twisting and leaping Teddy, fastened little Margar, with her string of
spools and her shabby double-gown, in the high-chair. The kitchen
smelled of coffee, of grease; the whole neighbourhood smelled in the
merciless heat of the summer day. Had that meat spoiled; was the cream
just a little turned?

Ted, always absorbed in wheels, pulleys, and nails, would be in an
interrogative mood.

"Mother, could a giant step across the East River?"

"What was it, dear?--the water was running; Mother didn't hear you."

"Could a giant step across a river?"

"Why, I suppose he could. Don't touch that, Ted."

"Could he step across the whole WORLD?"

"I don't know. Here's your porridge, dear. Listen----"

For Wallace was shouting. Martie would go to the bedroom door, to
interrogate the tousle-headed, heaving form under the bedclothes.

"Say, Martie, isn't there an awful lot of noise out there?"

Martie would stand silent for a moment.

"You can't blame the children for chattering, Wallace."

"Well, you tell Ted he'll catch it, if I hear any more of it!"

She would go lifelessly back to the kitchen, to sip a cup of scalding
black coffee. Margar went into her basket for her breakfast, banging
the empty bottle rapturously against the wicker sides as a finale.

"Wash both their faces, Isabeau," Martie would murmur, flinging back
her head with a long, weary sigh. "There are no buttons on this suit;
I'll have to go back into Mr. Bannister's room--too bad, for he's
asleep again! Yes, dear, you may go to market and push the
carriage--DON'T ask Mother that again, Ted! I always let you go, and
you