Re-Creations by Grace Livingston Hill Page B

he had to run to catch his car. She put up a delightful lunch for Harry and Louise, with dates and cheese in some of the sandwiches and nuts and lettuce in others, and a big piece of gingerbread and an orange apiece.
    “It’s just like having Mother again,” said Louise fervently as she kissed her sister good-bye and ran to catch Harry, who was already halfway to the corner.
    Cornelia held the thought of those words in her heart and cherished them over against the words she had heard from her young brother and sister the day before, and it comforted her. She watched them until they were out of sight, and then with a sigh climbed the stairs to Carey’s room. But Carey was locked in a heavy slumber, with a flushed face and heavy breathing. She pinned up a paper to keep out the light, threw the down quilt over him, and opened the window wide. Then she tiptoed away and left him. There was no use doing anything now. The fumes of liquor were still about him, and the heavy breath of cigarettes. She felt a deep horror and disgust in her soul as she thought about her brother and tried to work out a plan for saving him as she went about clearing off the breakfast table and washing the dishes.
    There was plenty of meat for dinner that night and lots of gravy left. She would need to think only about vegetables and a dessert. Chocolate blancmange would be good. She would make it at once and set it on the ice. Then, when the milkman came, she must remember to get a small bottle of cream to eat with it. By and by she would run down to the store and get a few carrots and a stalk of celery, and stew them together. That made a good combination. No, that wouldn’t do, either, too much sweetness, carrots and blancmange. A can of tomatoes cooked with two onions and a little celery would be better. That she could put on in the middle of the afternoon; there was plenty of pancake batter left for Carey and herself for lunch. She fixed the griddle far back on the range and set the batter in the refrigerator. Then she went with swift steps to the disordered front room.
    She went to work unpacking the boxes and setting things in order in the hall and the dining room. She discovered many needed kitchen utensils and some more dishes, and these she washed and put away. It was discouraging work, and somehow she did not seem to have accomplished much when at eleven o’clock she straightened up from a deep packing box from which she had removed the last article and looked about her. Piles of things everywhere and not a spot to walk anywhere! When would she ever get done? A great weariness from her overwork of the day before was upon her, and she wanted to sit down in the midst of the heaps and cry. It was just then in her weakness that the thought of college came upon her, college with its clean orderliness, its regular places for things, its delightful circle of companions, its interesting work, never any burden or hurry or worry.
    Just at this hour the classes were filing into the halls and going to new work. If she were back there, she would be entering her psychology class and looking at the blackboard for the announcement of the day’s work assigned to each member of the class. Instead of that here she was in the midst of an unending task, hopeless and weary and frightfully discouraged. A tear of self-pity began to steal out, and she might have been weeping in a minute more if she had not been suddenly arrested in her thoughts by sounds overhead, far away and slight, but nevertheless unmistakable.
    She wiped her eyes, and went out into the hall, softly listening. Yes, undoubtedly Carey had wakened at last. She could hear the bedsprings rattle and hear his feet moving lightly on the bare floor, as if he might be sitting up with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Her instinct told her that he would not be very happy when he awoke. She could imagine how disgusted he must be with himself; for Carey had a conscience, and he could not