"Well, I am sorry," said Anne, humbly.

"Never mind," said the bed-ridden woman, her impatience exhausted. At
that moment the door opened with a bang and a stout, middle-aged woman
entered noisily.

"What a noise you make!" said the bed-ridden woman peevishly. "You're
getting too fat."

"Fat people's better-tempered than thin ones," retorted the other
carelessly. "Good evening, Miss Hilton! Has she been telling you all
she's got to put up with more than other people?"

"Well now," returned Anne with decisive heartiness, "I don't think we've
been speaking about herself at all, except to express gratitude for a
very little service that I did her. We've spent a pleasant hour
together."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the woman, going to the fire and rattling
the irons noisily between the bars.

"You noisy thing. Can't you make a less din!" said the bed-ridden woman,
biting her lip.

"Other people's got to live in the house besides you," said the woman.
"If you want so much attention, you know where you can get it."

The bed-ridden woman shut her eyes and lay still at this threat of the
workhouse, that confession of failure, in a world where ability to work
becomes a kind of morality, and lack of physical strength to procure the