Mrs. Quincy, in her solitary confinement, unloved and complaining, might

be considered a figure either repulsive or pathetic, according to the

onlooker's point of view. Fortunately there are always a few big enough

at heart to turn towards the world a face of affection rather than of

criticism, to whom woe appeals more than vulgarity.

So, once in a while in her busy life, Mrs. Lenox found time to drop in

as the bearer of a cheerful word and a friendly look to the ugly little

apartment where Mrs. Quincy lived in the third story height of domestic

felicity.

On an April afternoon she came, like a dark-eyed Flora, her hands loaded

with daffodils that might bring a glow of the beauty of spring even to

an inartistic spirit. The front door stood open, and a flat has an

unrelenting way of laying bare all the skeletons that find no closet

room. Mrs. Lenox surprised a scene of domestic economy in the tiny

parlor. The curtains had been taken down for fear they would fade, and a

large piece of newspaper lay where the sunlight struck the carpet. In

the middle of the room sat Mrs. Quincy, and before her on a kitchen

chair stood a little tub of foamy soap-suds. A maid was stationed at

hand with a bar of soap and a bottle of ammonia, and the steam of homely

cleanliness filled the air.

"Good gracious, I declare!" ejaculated Mrs. Quincy, "if it ain't Mrs.

Lenox! Come right in. I'm just washin' out my under-flannels and my

stockin's. I can't bear the slovenly ways of servants, and it's only

myself as can do 'em to suit myself. There, Sarah, you take the things

away, and I'll let you rinse 'em out this once. And mind you do it good.

Be sure to use four rinsin's. And soft water, mind. And hand me a towel

to wipe off my hands. It's real good of you to come and see a forlorn

old woman, that I know can't be much pleasure to you, Mrs. Lenox. There

ain't many that takes the trouble. And yet time was when I was

considered as good-lookin' as that ungrateful daughter of mine, that I

slaved for for years. Put them flowers in water, Sarah. I guess a

butter jar's the only thing I got that's big enough to hold them."

Mrs. Lenox sat down, wondering if time and life could ever transform the

smooth beauty of Lena's features to this semblance of failure which they

so closely resembled. Mrs. Quincy's face was like a grain field over

which the storms had swept, changing what was its glory to a horror.

The scarlet-faced Sarah hustled tub and chair and dripping garments

kitchen-ward. The visitor took up her task of cheerfulness, and Mrs.

Quincy cackled and grumbled to her heart's content.




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