exploring expedition; then she stopped suddenly, reflecting. The end
of her reflection was that she took off her gingham apron, tied on a
nice white one trimmed with knitted lace, and went down the street to
Mrs. Thomas P. Ayres's. Thomas P. Ayres had been dead for the last
ten years, but everybody called his widow Mrs. T. P. Ayres. Mrs.
Ayres kept no maid. She had barely enough income to support herself
and her daughter. She came to the door herself. She was a small,
delicate, pretty woman, and her little thin hands were red with
dish-water.

"Good-morning," she said, in a weary, gentle fashion. "Come in, Mrs.
Whitman, won't you?" As she spoke she wrinkled her forehead between
her curves of gray hair. She had always wrinkled her forehead, but in
some inscrutable fashion the wrinkles had always smoothed out. Her
forehead was smooth as a girl's. She smiled, and the smile was
exactly in accord with her voice; it was weary and gentle. There was
not the slightest joy in it, only a submission and patience which
might evince a slight hope of joy to come.

"I've got so much to do I ought not to stop long," said Sylvia, "but
I thought I'd run in a minute."

"Walk right in," said Mrs. Ayres, and Sylvia followed her into the
sitting-room, which was quite charming, with a delicate flowered
paper and a net-work of green vines growing in bracket-pots, which
stood all about. There were also palms and ferns. The small room
looked like a bower, although it was very humbly furnished. Sylvia
sat down.

"You always look so cool in here," she said, "and it's a warm morning