ghborhood, and yet it costs as much as a
better one. Kathleen is Irish, you know. She only comes to the
gymnasium, and she's irregular at that. She's a sort of nurse; not
trained, of course, but good of her kind. Take the address; it's near
your, work, and if you like----" and her voice trailed off as she turned
to the next girl who came to her for guidance.

Hertha did "like." She went to Kathleen's the following evening and
settled the bargain with a week's rent in advance. She liked the rear
alcove room with its iron bed and fresh cover; and, though it was dark,
it opened with wide doors into the parlor. "For the both of us,"
Kathleen explained, "unless you're wanting to go straight to bed and
then it's yours." The parlor had little furniture--a plain table, two
straight chairs, a comfortable rocker and a couch with a Bagdad cover.
Kathleen had a small bedroom opening into a court; but the attractive
spot was the kitchen. It faced the south and its two windows were filled
with red geraniums in full bloom. The walls were light buff, the kitchen
table was covered with a white oilcloth, and the wooden chairs were
painted like the wall. For convenience, it was beyond anything Hertha
had ever known with its gas stove, its hot and cold water for sink and
tubs. She remembered the thousands of pails of water that her mother and
Ellen had carried during the years she had been with them, and the
millions of pieces of wood that Tom had piled up and brought into the
kitchen. Getting meals and washing your clothes here would be fun, not
work.

"I can make corn bread for breakfast," she said to Kathleen
confidentially, as they looked into the closet with its wealth of pots
and pans, spoons and egg beaters, skillets and toasters--more kitchen
utensils than Hertha had imagined any one could own.

Kathleen regarded her quizzically.

"When do you go to work?" she queried.

"At eight o'clock."

"That's better than it used to be, but if you make corn bread it's
likely it will only be for a week. Then you'll be so tired when you wake
that the best tasting food in the world won't equal an extra nap,
cuddled under the clothes, with the sure knowledge that it's wrong. It
will be oatmeal cooked the night before and warmed up, and coffee made
the way that's quickest, and a slice of toast, maybe, from the bread
bought of the baker. You can boil yourself an egg, but they put the
price on eggs up every winter to pay for the chemicals they