The Story of Julia Page | Page 7

sleep.
But Julia did not remember anything of this in the morning, and the
pincushion had rolled under the bed, so Emeline never knew of it. She
and George had a good dinner, and later went to the Orpheum, and
were happier than they had been for a long time.
The next Sunday they went to Oakland to see Emeline's sister, and
possibly to begin househunting. It was a cold, dark day, with a raw
wind blowing. Gulls dipped and screamed over the wake of the
ferryboat that carried the Pages to Oakland, and after the warm cabin
and the heated train, they all shivered miserably as they got out at the
appointed corner. Oakland looked bleak and dreary, the wind was
blowing chaff and papers against fences and steps.
Emeline had rather lost sight of her sister for a year or two, and had last
seen her in another and better house than the one which they presently
identified by street and number. The sisters had married at about the
same time, but Ed Torney was a shiftless and unfortunate man, never
steadily at work, and always mildly surprised at the discomfort of life.
May had four children, and was expecting a fifth. Two of the older
children, stupid-looking little blondes, with colds in their noses, and
dirt showing under the fair hair, were playing in the dooryard of the
shabby cottage now. The gate hung loose, the ground was worn bare by
children's feet and dug into holes where children had burrowed, and
littered with cans and ropes and boxes.
Emeline was genuinely shocked by the evidences of actual want inside.
May was a thin, bent, sickly looking woman now, her graying hair

hanging in a loose coil over her cotton wrapper. Floors everywhere
were bare, a few chairs were here and there, a few beds running over
with thin bedding, a table in the kitchen was covered with scattered
dishes, some dirty and some clean. Ashes drifted out of the kitchen
stove, and in the sink was a great tin dish-pan full of cool, greasy water.
The oldest child, a five-year-old girl, had followed these dazzling
visitors in, and now mounted a box and attacked this dish-pan with
pathetic energy. The two younger children sat on the floor,
apathetically staring. May made only a few smiling apologies. They
"could see how she was," she said, limping to a chair into which she
dropped with a sigh of relief. They had had a "fierce" time since
Ed--Ed was the husband and father--had lost his job a year ago. He had
not been able to get anything permanent since. Ed had been there just a
minute ago, she said--and indeed the odour of tobacco was still strong
on the close air--but he had been having a good deal of stomach trouble
of late, and the children made him nervous, and he had gone out for a
walk. Poor May, smiling gallantly over the difficulties of her life, drew
her firstborn to her knees, brushed back the child's silky, pale hair with
bony, trembling fingers, and prophesied that things would be easier
when mamma's girlies got to work: Evelyn was going to be a
dressmaker, and Marguerite an actress.
"She can say a piece out of the Third Reader real cute--the children
next door taught her," said May, but Marguerite would not be exploited;
she dug her blonde head into her mother's shoulder in a panic of
shyness; and shortly afterward the Pages went away. Uncle George
gave each child a dime, Julia kissed her little cousins good-bye, and
Emeline felt a sick spasm of pity and shame as May bade the children
thank them, and thanked them herself. Emeline drew her sister to the
door, and pressed two silver dollars, all she happened to have with her,
into her hand.
"Aw, don't, Em, you oughtn't," May said, ashamed and turning crimson,
but instantly she took the money. "We've had an awful hard time--or I
wouldn't!" said she, tears coming to her eyes.
"Oh, that's all right!" Emeline said uncomfortably, as she ran down the

steps. Her heart burned with sympathy for poor May, who had been so
pretty and so clever! Emeline could not understand the change! May
had graduated from High School with honours; she had held a good
position as a bookkeeper in a grocery before her marriage, but, like
Emeline, for the real business of life she had had no preparation at all.
Her own oldest child could have managed the family finances and
catered to sensitive stomachs with as much system and intelligence as
May.
On the boat Emeline spoke of her little money gift to her sister, and
George roused himself from a deep study to approve and to reimburse
her. They did not speak again