"Don't wait for me," she said levelly. "I'm not going."

"Well, put the kid's hat on then," George suggested, settling his own
with some care at the mantel mirror.

"Get your hand-embroidered dress out of your drawer, Julia," said her
mother, "and the hat Aunt Maybelle gave you!"

"I'm going to Cass's to telephone, and I need some cigarettes," George
announced from the door. "I'll be back in five minutes for Julie."

"Don't forget to get a drink while you're in Cass's," Emeline reminded
him, as she flung an embroidered dress over Julia's limp little draggled
petticoats. George's answer was a violent slamming of the hall door.

Julia's little face was radiant as her mother tied on a soiled white
straw bonnet covered with roses, and put a cologne-soaked handkerchief
into the pocket of her blue velvet coat. The little girl did not have
many pleasures; there were very few children in the neighbourhood, and
Julia was not very strong; she easily caught colds in dark O'Farrell
Street, or in the draughty hall. All winter long she had been hanging
over the coal fire in the front room, or leaning against the window
watching the busy street below--but today was spring! Sunlight glorified
even the dreary aspect from the windows above "J. Cassidy's" saloon, and
the glorious singing freshness of the breeze, the heavenly warmth of the
blue air, had reached Julia's little heart.

When she was quite dressed, and was standing at the window patiently
watching for her father, Emeline came and stood beside her.