In the tide of the Jenkins's prosperity there came the inevitable ebb.
On the fateful Friday morning succeeding the concert, Mrs. Hudgers,
looking from her window, saw a little group of children with books under
their arms returning from school. Having no timepiece, she was
accustomed to depend on the passing to and fro of the children for
guidance as to the performance of her household affairs.

"My sakes, but twelve o'clock come quick to-day," she thought, as she
kindled the fire and set the kettle over it in preparation of her midday
meal.

A neighbor dropping in viewed these proceedings with surprise.

"Why, Mrs. Hudgers, ain't you et yer breakfast yet?"

"Of course I hev. I'm puttin' the kittle over fer my dinner."

"Dinner! why, it's only a half arter nine."

Mrs. Hudgers looked incredulous.

"I seen the chillern agoin' hum from school," she maintained.

"Them was the Jenkinses, Iry hez come down with the scarlit fever, and
they're all in quarrytine."

"How you talk! Wait till I put the kittle offen the bile."

The two neighbors sat down to discuss this affliction with the ready
sympathy of the poor for the poor. Their passing envy of the Jenkins's
good fortune was instantly skimmed from the surface of their
friendliness, which had only lain dormant and wanted but the touch of
trouble to make them once more akin.