“Come here, Alfred,” he called to the crying child, at the same time thrusting his hand into his trousers pocket, where he carried his money loose in the same large way that he lived life in general.  He put a quarter in the youngster’s hand and held him in his arms a moment, soothing his sobs.  “Now run along and get some candy, and don’t forget to give some to your brothers and sisters.  Be sure and get the kind that lasts longest.”

His sister lifted a flushed face from the wash-tub and looked at him.

“A nickel’d ha’ ben enough,” she said.  “It’s just like you, no idea of the value of money.  The child’ll eat himself sick.”

“That’s all right, sis,” he answered jovially.  “My money’ll take care of itself.  If you weren’t so busy, I’d kiss you good morning.”

He wanted to be affectionate to this sister, who was good, and who, in her way, he knew, loved him.  But, somehow, she grew less herself as the years went by, and more and more baffling.  It was the hard work, the many children, and the nagging of her husband, he decided, that had changed her.  It came to him, in a flash of fancy, that her nature seemed taking on the attributes of stale vegetables, smelly soapsuds, and of the greasy dimes, nickels, and quarters she took in over the counter of the store.

“Go along an’ get your breakfast,” she said roughly, though secretly pleased.  Of all her wandering brood of brothers he had always been her favorite.  “I declare I will kiss you,” she said, with a sudden stir at her heart.

With thumb and forefinger she swept the dripping suds first from one arm and then from the other.  He put his arms round her massive waist and kissed her wet steamy lips.  The tears welled into her eyes—­not so much from strength of feeling as from the weakness of chronic overwork.  She shoved him away from her, but not before he caught a glimpse of her moist eyes.

“You’ll find breakfast in the oven,” she said hurriedly.  “Jim ought to be up now.  I had to get up early for the washing.  Now get along with you and get out of the house early.  It won’t be nice to-day, what of Tom quittin’ an’ nobody but Bernard to drive the wagon.”

Martin went into the kitchen with a sinking heart, the image of her red face and slatternly form eating its way like acid into his brain.  She might love him if she only had some time, he concluded.  But she was worked to death.  Bernard Higginbotham was a brute to work her so hard.  But he could not help but feel, on the other hand, that there had not been anything beautiful in that kiss.  It was true, it was an unusual kiss.  For years she had kissed him only when he returned from voyages or departed on voyages.  But this kiss had tasted soapsuds, and the lips, he had noticed, were flabby.  There had been no quick, vigorous lip-pressure such as should accompany any kiss.  Hers was the kiss of a tired woman who had been tired so long that she