She
sniffed. Her mother nodded.
"Stew! And with _dumplin's_--" She made it sound like fairy food. "Ready
to the beating when your father comes."
"Where's Dale? And Pop?"
"It's Dale's night at the store. And Pop'll be comin' along any minute.
I've set the lamp for him."
"I'm hungry," Beryl complained. She sat down cross-legged on the
spotless scrap of carpeting and proceeded with infinite tenderness to
disrobe the doll.
"Do you think she will like it here?" she asked suddenly, looking about
the humble room which for the Lynch's, served as parlor, dining-room and
kitchen. Now its bareness lay wrapped in a kindly shadow through which
glinted diamond sparks from much-scrubbed tin. "It's _nice_--" Beryl
meditated. She loved this hour, she loved the singing tea-kettle and the
smell of strong soap and her mother's face in the lamplight, with all
the loud noises of the street hushed, and the ugliness outside hidden by
the closed door, against the paintless boards of which had been nailed a
flaming poster inviting the nation's youth to join the Navy.
"But maybe this home'll be--too different," she finished.
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