material, and meanly material.

"Come here, Alfred," he called to the crying child, at the same time
thrusting his hand into his trousers pocket, where he carried his money
loose in the same large way that he lived life in general. He put a
quarter in the youngster's hand and held him in his arms a moment,
soothing his sobs. "Now run along and get some candy, and don't forget
to give some to your brothers and sisters. Be sure and get the kind that
lasts longest."

His sister lifted a flushed face from the wash-tub and looked at him.

"A nickel'd ha' ben enough," she said. "It's just like you, no idea of
the value of money. The child'll eat himself sick."

"That's all right, sis," he answered jovially. "My money'll take care of
itself. If you weren't so busy, I'd kiss you good morning."

He wanted to be affectionate to this sister, who was good, and who, in
her way, he knew, loved him. But, somehow, she grew less herself as the
years went by, and more and more baffling. It was the hard work, the
many children, and the nagging of her husband, he decided, that had
changed her. It came to him, in a flash of fancy, that her nature seemed
taking on the attributes of stale vegetables, smelly soapsuds, and of the
greasy dimes, nickels, and quarters she took in over the counter of the
store.

"Go along an' get your breakfast," she said roughly, though secretly
pleased. Of all her wandering brood of brothers he had always been her
favorite. "I declare I _will_ kiss you," she said, with a sudden stir at