talking.

"Stefana says there's some smooches, but the worst ones come under your
arms an' where they's puckers. The wrinkles Stefana hopes you'll
excuse--they'll air 'out, she expects. She was comin' over an' explain,
herself, but she's gone to bed. Evangeline's gone, too, to keep the baby
quiet. Stefana says you needn't pay as much's you expected to, 'count o'
the smooches an' wrink--"

"I always pay the same price for my dresses," Miss Theodosia said,
forgetful of the boy's affliction. She put the money into the hard
little palm of Carruthers and watched him scamper home with it. Miss
Theodosia looked happy. She felt pleasant little tweaks at her
heartstrings as if small grimy hands were ringing them, playing a tender
little tune. Scorched, blundering young hands--Stefana's. The little
tune rang plaintive in her ears. She had a vision of Stefana toiling
over the ironing of her dresses and going to bed exhausted, when the
toil was over. Miss Theodosia's eyes followed Carruther's retreating
little figure till it reached the House of Little Children and
disappeared from view. What had she, Theodosia Baxter, to do with houses
of little children? Since when had they possessed attractions for
her--held her tender, brooding gaze? What was she doing here now,
gazing? Theodosia Baxter!

Stefana had folded the dresses painstakingly in separate newspaper
bundles and stacked them on Carruther's outstretched arms. They were
stacked now on Miss Theodosia's porch. She picked them up and turned
with them into the house.

"I'll unfold them," she thought, "and shake them out. I must tell her to