“we’d be sheltered, anyway. But how about eating? Lyddy! I have such an appetite.”
“She says we can have her share of the crops if we will pay the taxes and make the necessary repairs.”
“Crops! what do you suppose is growing in those fields at this time of the year?”
“Nothing much. But if we could get out there early we might have a garden and see to it that Mr. Pritchett planted a proper crop. And we could have chickens–I’d love that,” said Lyddy.
“Oh, goodness, gracious me! Wouldn’t we all love it–father, too? But how can we even get out there, much more live till vegetables and chickens are ripe, on nothing a week?”
“That–is–what–I–don’t–see–yet,” admitted Lyddy, slowly.
“It’s very kind of Aunt Jane,” complained ’Phemie. “But it’s just like opening the door of Heaven to a person who has no wings! We can’t even reach Hillcrest.”
“You and I could,” said her sister, vigorously.
“How, please?”
“We could walk.”
“Why, Lyd! It’s fifty miles if it’s a step!”
“It’s nearer seventy. Takes two hours on the train to the nearest station; and then you ride up the mountain a long, long way. But we could walk it.”
“And be tramps–regular tramps,” cried ’Phemie.
“Well, I’d rather be a tramp than a pauper,” declared the older sister, vigorously.
“But poor father!”
“That’s just it,” agreed Lydia. “Of course, we can do nothing of the kind. We cannot leave him while he is sick, nor can we take him out there to Hillcrest if he gets on his feet again – ”
“Oh, Lyddy! don’t talk that way. He is going to be all right after a few days’ rest.”
“I do not think he will ever be well if he goes back to work in that hat factory. If we could only get him to Hillcrest.”
“And there we’d all starve to death in a hurry,” grumbled ’Phemie, punching the hard, little boarding-house pillow. “Oh, dear! what’s the use of talking? There is no way out!”
“There’s always a way out–if we think hard enough,” returned her sister.
“Wish you’d promulgate one,” sniffed ’Phemie.
“I am going to think–and you do the same.”
“I’m going to – ”
“Snore!” finished ’Phemie. That ended the discussion for the time being. But Lydia lay awake and racked her tired brain for hours.
The pale light of the raw March morning streaked the window-pane when Lydia was awakened by her sister hurrying into her clothes for the day’s work at the millinery store. There would be but two days more for her there.
And then?
It was a serious problem. Lydia had perhaps ten dollars in her reserve fund. Father might not be paid for his full week if he did not go back to the shop. His firm was not generous, despite the fact that Mr. Bray had worked so long for them. A man past forty, who is frequently sick a day or two at a time, soon wears out the patience of employers, especially when there is young blood in the firm.
’Phemie would get her week’s pay Saturday night. Altogether, Lyddy might find thirty dollars in her hand with which to face the future for all three of them!
What could she get for their soaked furniture? These thoughts were with her while she was dressing.
’Phemie had hurried away after making her sister promise to telephone as to her father’s condition the minute they allowed Lyddy to see him at the hospital. Aunt Jane was a luxurious lie-abed, and had ordered tea and toast for nine o’clock. Her oldest niece put on her shabby hat and coat and went out to the nearest lunch-room, where coffee and rolls were her breakfast.
Then she walked down to Trimble Avenue and approached the huge, double-decker where they had lived. Salvage men were already carrying away the charred fragments of the furniture from the top floor. Lyddy hoped that, unlike herself, the Smiths and the others up there had been insured against fire.
She plodded wearily up the four flights and unlocked one of the flat doors and entered. Two of the salvage men followed her in and removed the tarpaulins–which had been worse than useless.
“No harm done but a little water, Miss,” said one of them, consolingly. “But you talk up to the adjuster and he’ll make it all right.”
They all thought, of course, that the Brays’ furniture was insured. Lyddy closed the door and looked over the wrecked flat.
The parlor furniture coverings were all stained, and the carpet’s colors had “run” fearfully. Many of their little keepsakes and “gim-cracks” had been broken when the tarpaulins were spread.
The bedrooms were in better shape, although the bedding was somewhat wet. But the kitchen was ruined.
“Of course,” thought Lyddy, “there wasn’t much to ruin. Everything was cheap enough. But what a mess to clean up!”
She looked out of the window across the air-shaft. There was the boy!
He nodded and beckoned to her. He had his own window open. Lydia considered that she had no business to talk with this young man; yet he had played the “friend in need” the evening before.
“How’s your father?” he called, the moment she opened her window.
“I do not know yet. They told me not to come to the hospital until nine-thirty.”
“I guess you’re in a mess over there–eh?” he said, with his most boyish smile.
But Lyddy was not for idle converse. She nodded, thanked him for his kindness the evening before, and firmly shut the window. She thought she knew how to keep that young man in his place.
But she hadn’t the heart to do anything toward tidying up the flat now. And how she wished she might not have to do it!
“If we could only take our clothing and the bedding and little things, and walk out,” she murmured, standing in the middle of the little parlor.
To try to “pick up the pieces” here was going to be dreadfully hard.
“I wish some fairy would come along and transport us all to Hillcrest Farm in the twinkling of an eye,” said Lyddy to herself. “I–I’d rather starve out there than live as we have for the past three months here.”
She went to the door of the flat just as somebody tapped gently on the panel. A poorly dressed Jewish man stood hesitating on the threshold.
“I’m sorry,” said Lyddy, hastily; “but we had trouble here last night–a fire. I can’t cook anything, and really haven’t a thing to give – ”
Her mother had boasted that
