“Emeline sent for me,” Mrs. Torney said in a sad, droning voice.  “Mamma just couldn’t manage it, Julia; she’s getting on; she can’t do everything.  So me and Regina gave up the Oakland house, and we’ve been here three weeks.  We didn’t want to do it, Julia, but you couldn’t blame us if you’d read your Mamma’s letter.  Regina’s going to work as soon as she can, and help out!”

Julia understood a certain deprecatory and apologetic note in her aunt’s voice to refer to the fact that the Shotwell Street house was largely supported by Jim’s generous monthly cheque, and that in establishing herself and her youngest daughter there she more or less avowedly added one more burden to Julia’s shoulders.

“I’m glad you did, Auntie,” she answered cheerfully.  “How’s Muriel?  And where’s Geraldine?”

“Geraldine’s at school,” Mrs. Torney said mournfully.  “But Regina’s not going to start in here.  She done awfully well in school, too, Julia, but, as I say, she feels she ought to get to work now.  She’s got an awful sore throat, too.  Muriel’s started the nursing course, but I don’t believe she can go on with it, it’s something fierce.  All my children have weak stomachs; she says the smell in the hospital makes her awfully sick.  I don’t feel real well myself; every time I stand up—­my God!  I feel as if my back was going to split in two, and yet with poor Em this way I felt as if I had ter come.  Not that I can do anything for Emeline, but I was losing money on my boarders.  I wish’t you’d come out Sunday, Julia, I cooked a real good dinner, didn’t I, Ma?”

Mrs. Cox did not hear, and Julia turned to her mother.

“Made up your mind really to go, Ju?” Mrs. Page asked.

“Oh, really!  We leave on the seventh.”

“I’ve always wanted to go somewheres on a ship,” Emeline said.  “Didn’t care so much what it was when I got there, but wanted to go!”

“So have I,” contributed Mrs. Torney.  “I was real like you at your age, Julia, and I used to think I’d do this and that when the children was big.  Well, some of us are lucky and some of us aren’t—­ain’t that it, Ma?  I was talking to a priest about it once,” she pursued, “and he said, ’Well, Mrs. Torney, if there was no sorrow and suffering in the world, there wouldn’t be no saints!’ ‘Oh, Father,’ I says, ’there isn’t much of the saint in me!  But,’ I says, ’I’ve been a faithful wife and mother, if I say it; seven children I’ve raised and two I’ve buried; I’ve worked my hands to the bone,’ I says, ’and the Lord has sent me nothing but trouble!’”

“Ma, ain’t you going to put your clothes on and go to the store?” Regina said.

“I was going to,” Mrs. Torney said, sighing, “but I think maybe now I’ll wait, and let Geraldine go—­she’ll have her things on.”

“I suppose you haven’t got any milk?” Mrs. Page said.  “I declare I get to feeling awfully gone about this time!”

“We haven’t a drop, Em,” Mrs. Torney said, after investigating a small back porch, from which Julia got a strong whiff of wet ashes and decaying cabbage leaves.