in order when he awakened from his nap, wheeled him to market,
wheeled him home for another bottle and another nap. Then it was
time for her own meal, and there were a few more dishes, and some
simple laundry work to do, and then again the boy was dressed, and
the perambulator was bumped out of the niche below the stairs, and
they went out again. The hardest hour of all, in the warm
lengthening days of spring, was between five and six. Junior was
tired and cross, dinner preparations were under way, the table
must be set, one more last bottle warmed. When Bert came in,
Nancy, flushed and tired, was ready, and he might play for a few
minutes with Junior before he was tucked up. But the relaxation of
the meal was trying to Nancy, and the last dishes a weary drag.
She would go to her chair, when they were done, and sit stupidly
staring ahead of her. Sometimes, in this daze, she would reach for
the fallen sheets of the evening paper, and read them
indifferently. Sometimes she merely battled with yawns, before
taking herself wearily to bed.

"Can I get you your book, dear?" Bert might ask.

"No-o-o! Pm too sleepy. I put my head down on the bed beside
Junior to-day, and I've been as heavy as lead ever since! Besides,
I forgot to wash my hands, and they're dishwatery."

"What tires you so, do you suppose?"

"Oh, nothing special, and everything! I think watching the baby is
very tiring. He never uses all my time, and yet I can't do
anything else while I have him. And then he's getting so
mischievous--he makes work!"