looking perfectly sick and, without any breakfast but a cup of black
coffee, put on your old mackintosh and rubbers and start off for the
shop, saying you were all right and not to bother, that I knew that was
what you'd say now, if you felt the way I do."

"I'm sorry," said Portia. "I might have known that was what you meant. I
wonder if you ever want to say ugly things and don't, or if it's just
that it never occurs to you to try to hurt anybody. I didn't mean to say
that either. I've had a rather worrying sort of week."

"What is it?" said Rose. "Tell me about it. Can I help?"

"No," said Portia. "I've thought it over and it isn't your job." She got
up and went to the window where Rose couldn't see her face, and stood
looking out. "It's about mother," she concluded.

Rose sat up with a jerk. "About mother!" she echoed. "Has she been ill
again this week? And you haven't let me know! It's a shame I haven't
been around, but I've been busy"--her smile reflected some of the irony
of Portia's--"and rather miserable. Of course I was going this
afternoon."

"Yes," said Portia, "I fancied you'd come this afternoon. That's why I
wanted to see you alone first."

"Alone!" Rose leaned sharply forward. "Oh, don't stand there where I
can't see you! Tell me what it is."

"I'm going to," said Portia. "You see, I wasn't satisfied with old
Murray. That soothing bedside manner of his, and his way of encouraging
you as if you were a child going to have a tooth pulled, drove me nearly
wild. I thought it was possible, either that he didn't understand
mother's case, or else that he wouldn't tell me what he suspected. So
a week ago to-day, I got her to go with me to a specialist. He made a
very thorough examination, and the next day I went around to see him."
Her voice got a little harder and cooler. "Mother'll never be well,
Rose. She's got an incurable disease. There's a long name for it
that I can't remember. What it means is that her heart is getting
flabby--degenerating, he called it. He says we can't do anything except
to retard the progress of the disease. It may go fast, or it may go
slowly. That attack she had was just a symptom, he said. She'll have
others. And by and by, of course, a fatal one."

Still she didn't look around from the window. She knew Rose was crying.
She had heard the gasp and choke that followed her first announcement of
the news, and since then, irregularly, a muffled sound of sobbing. She
wanted to g