Sidney could not remember when her Aunt Harriet had not sat at the table.

It was one of her earliest disillusionments to learn that Aunt Harriet

lived with them, not because she wished to, but because Sidney's father had

borrowed her small patrimony and she was "boarding it out." Eighteen years

she had "boarded it out." Sidney had been born and grown to girlhood; the

dreamer father had gone to his grave, with valuable patents lost for lack

of money to renew them--gone with his faith in himself destroyed, but with

his faith in the world undiminished: for he left his wife and daughter

without a dollar of life insurance.

Harriet Kennedy had voiced her own view of the matter, the after the

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funeral, to one of the neighbors:-"He left no insurance. Why should he bother? He left me."

To the little widow, her sister, she had been no less bitter, and more

explicit.

"It looks to me, Anna," she said, "as if by borrowing everything I had

George had bought me, body and soul, for the rest of my natural life. I'll

stay now until Sidney is able to take hold. Then I'm going to live my own

life. It will be a little late, but the Kennedys live a long time."

The day of Harriet's leaving had seemed far away to Anna Page. Sidney was

still her baby, a pretty, rather leggy girl, in her first year at the High

School, prone to saunter home with three or four knickerbockered boys in

her train, reading "The Duchess" stealthily, and begging for longer

dresses. She had given up her dolls, but she still made clothes for them

out of scraps from Harriet's sewing-room. In the parlance of the Street,

Harriet "sewed"--and sewed well.

She had taken Anna into business with her, but the burden of the

partnership had always been on Harriet. To give her credit, she had not

complained. She was past forty by that time, and her youth had slipped by

in that back room with its dingy wallpaper covered with paper patterns.

On the day after the arrival of the roomer, Harriet Kennedy came down to

breakfast a little late. Katie, the general housework girl, had tied a

small white apron over her generous gingham one, and was serving breakfast.

From the kitchen came the dump of an iron, and cheerful singing. Sidney

was ironing napkins. Mrs. Page, who had taken advantage of Harriet's

tardiness to read the obituary column in the morning paper, dropped it.

But Harriet did not sit down. It was her custom to jerk her chair out and

drop into it, as if she grudged every hour spent on food. Sidney, not

hearing the jerk, paused with her iron in air.




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