longer young, she somehow suggested a boy--a boy rather overtrained; she
was far more boyish than Wayne. She had a certain queer beauty, too;
not beauty of Adelaide's type, of structure and coloring and elegance,
but beauty of expression. Life itself had written some fine lines of
humor and resolve upon her face, and her blue-gray eyes seemed actually
to flare with hope and intention. Her hair was of that light-brown shade
in which plentiful gray made little change of shade; it was wound in a
knot at the back of her head and gave her trouble. She was always
pushing it up and repinning it into place, as if it were too heavy for
her small head.

"I wonder if there's anything to eat in the house," her son said.

"I wonder." They moved together toward the ice-box.

"Mother," said Pete, "that piece of pie has been in the ice-box at least
three days. Let's throw it away."

She took the saucer thoughtfully.

"I like it so much," she said.

"Then why don't you eat it?"

"It's not good for me." She let Wayne take the saucer. "What do you
know?" she asked.

She had adopted slang as she adopted most labor-saving devices.

"Well, I do know something new," said Wayne. He sat down on the kitchen