Part Three Service Chapter 3

The kitchen was even more desolate, as it had been more inviting before. There were ashes sifting out of the stove, rings of soot and grease on the table-top, more soot, and the prints of muddy boots on the floor. Milk had soured in the bottles, odds and ends of food were everywhere, Betsey's book was open on the table, propped against the streaked and stained coffee-pot.

"Your mother's ill?" asked Susan. She could think of no other explanation.

"Doesn't this kitchen look awful?" said Betsey, resuming operations with books and newspapers at the range. "No, Mother's all right. I'm going to take her up some tea. Don't you touch those things, Sue. Don't you bother!"

"Has she been in bed?" demanded Susan.

"No, she gets up every day now," Betsey said impatiently. "But she won't come downstairs!"

"Won't! But why not!" gasped Susan.

"She--" Betsey glanced cautiously toward the hall door. "She hasn't come down at all," she said, softly. "Not--since!"

"What does Anna say?" Susan asked aghast.

"Anna comes home every Saturday, and she and Phil talk to Mother," the little sister said, "but so far it's not done any good! I go up two or three times a day, but she won't talk to me.--Sue, ought this have more paper?"