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“Emmy! Emmy! there comes Mrs. Conner!” screamed her mother.

Her words were accompanied by the vision of a white horse and an ancient phaeton (which had been newly washed for the occasion) just beyond the lilac-bushes at the gate. Mrs. Conner’s comely presence filled the better part of the seat, but the eyes of all the Darters traveled at once to the slim girl in gray covert-cloth who sat beside her. The girl looked like hundreds of rather pretty American girls, with gray eyes and brown hair and dimples in their cheeks. She was pretty as youth and cheerfulness and dainty clothes are always pretty, but Emmy’s gaze dwelt on her with reverence. “That’s a camera she’s holding–in that box,” she said in a low tone to Jinny, “she’s the girl that got the scholarship.” Emmy sighed.

Mrs. Conner had stopped the horse. She responded to Emmy’s greeting by presenting her to the girl in gray. “Miss Doris Keith; she’s going to the Chicago University. She knows Sibyl.” Then she fished out a package from the luggage heaped at their feet. “Here’s the books. That your ma on the piazza?”

As if in response, a few hollow moans floated from the rocking-chair.

“She seems in great pain,” said Miss Keith, sympathetically.

Emmy’s fair skin reddened painfully. “No, she–she isn’t well,” she stammered.

Mrs. Conner coughed a dry, inexpressive cough.

“I do wish you would step in and see mother for a minute,” Emmy begged, as much with her eyes as with her voice. “I can hitch the horse if Miss Keith minds–“

But Miss Keith did not mind; she was quite willing to hold the horse. And the horse sagging his elderly head, appeared of no mind to move, whether “held” or no.

“Well?” said Mrs. Conner, when they were out of earshot.

“Mother thinks she is threatened with pleurisy, and she is trying the starvation cure,” answered Emmy. “She hasn’t eaten a bite since yesterday. I’m ashamed to be so late about my washing, but I’ve been cooking things all day, trying to tempt her–“

“Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear !” moaned the figure on the piazza.

Mrs. Conner put her arms akimbo. She looked steadfastly at the swaying and moaning shape. Mrs. Conner was a woman who had been known to fry fresh griddle-cakes for tramps. She drew in her breath and exhaled it explosively, as one that has been shocked out of speech.

“I’ve made her postum cereal coffee and cooked her granum, and I went out and begged dewberries from the Bigelows–she used to be fond of them–and I don’t know how many times I’ve made toast. She says I just torment her.”

“Won’t she drink a little beef tea?”

“Oh-h! Oh-h! U-r-r-r! Ug-h-h-h! ” shuddered the invalid.

“Didn’t you know she thinks meat wicked? And milk’s robbing the cow, and eggs robbing the hen, who wants to have a family as much as we do,” said Emily, rather incorrectly.

“More’n some of us do, I guess,” retorted Mrs. Conner, “and more’n folks ought to if they ain’t prepared to do their duty by them when they’ve got ’em.” She launched a fiery glance at Mrs. Darter, who was now groaning vehemently. “Got it all turned on this afternoon, ain’t she?”

“Dr. Abbie Cruller told her that it wasn’t natural to suppress ourselves. If you feel like groaning you ought to groan–“

“And she eats sech queer stuff she’s hungry most of the time,” Mrs. Conner interrupted, “so I expect she groans a lot. Say, Emmy, have you ever had anybody come in and give your ma a good hard– blowing up ?”

The blood rushed to Emmy’s face; her eyes sank. She answered, in a confused tone: “Aunt Lida Glenn was over yesterday. I don’t know what she said to mother, but mother–mother told me the one thing she wanted on earth was to have me–send Albert away and have everything ended between us, for she never was so insulted in her life as she had been by Albert’s mother.”