glad to delegate all the domestic problems to Justine. The invalid's
condition, from "nervous breakdown" became "nervous prostration,"
and August was made terrible for the loving little group that
watched her by the cruel fight with typhoid fever into which Mrs.
Salisbury's exhausted little body was drawn. Weak as she was
physically, her spirit never failed her; she met the overwhelming
charges bravely, rallied, sank, rallied again and lived. Alexandra
grew thin, if prettier than ever, and Owen Sargent grew bold and big
and protecting to meet her need. The boys were "angels," their
sister said, helpful, awed and obedient, but the children's father
began to stoop a little and to show gray in the thick black hair at
his temples.

Soberly, sympathetically, Justine steered her own craft through all
the storm and confusion of the domestic crisis. Trays appeared and
disappeared without apparent effort. Hot and delicious meals were
ready at the appointed hours, whether the pulse upstairs went up or
down. Tradespeople were paid; there was always ice; there was always
hot water. The muffled telephone never went unanswered, the doctor
never had to ring twice for admittance. If fruit was sent up to the
invalid, it was icy cold; if soup was needed, it appeared, smoking
hot, and guiltless of even one floating pinpoint of fat.

Alexandra and the trained nurse always found the kitchen the same:
orderly, aired, silent, with Justine, a picture of domestic
efficiency, sitting by the open window, or on the shady side porch,
shelling peas or peeling apples, or perhaps wiping immaculate
glasses with an immaculate cloth at the sink. The ticking clock, the
shining range, the sunlight lying in clean-cut oblongs upon the
bright linoleum, Justine's smoothly braided hair and crisp percales,