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It was a midsummer night, cool after a sultry day. Gonzales had picked a bouquet of tea-roses and bridal wreath for my mother and I was taking them home, after work about nine o’clock. My mother, her face streaming with perspiration, was sitting beside the stove in which she had built up a raging fire that roared through the open damper. For further warmth she was wearing the old hooded wrapper and my sheep-lined slippers.

“Why, Mamma, why have you built a fire? It’s like a furnace in here!”

I saw that despite her dripping face she was shivering and her teeth chattered between her words as she said, “Maybe you don’t feel the cold if you’re full of brandy. Not everybody has the good luck to have a little something to warm them up on the inside.” The steady accusation in her eyes did not waver, and then I observed that the kitchen was in disorder. The shelves had been ransacked and half their useless objects had been thrown down so that broken glass and monkey wrenches and empty cans lay in a nondescript heap on the floor. Weeks before, at Dr. McAllister’s injunction, I had taken the bottle of brandy to the shop. I said nothing.

“I suppose fairies drank it,” said my mother. “I suppose the same little fairies that stole the golden egg so a person couldn’t buy so much as a thimbleful of wine when they were dying of the cold. I guess they locked the door so a sick woman couldn’t get a breath of fresh air if she needed it. It couldn’t have been the invalid’s daughter, oh, no.”

I had often rehearsed my speech but as it issued, it sounded flat and false. My unsteady voice belied the words: “Yes, Mamma, I did lock the door. I didn’t want to worry you and so I didn’t tell you. A lot of houses have been robbed this last week and I didn’t want the burglars to come here. You know how you lose yourself in your work and sometimes don’t even hear me when I come in. I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise.”

She rolled her head crazily round and round, stopped, grinned at me, and rolled it again, repeating in what I suppose she thought was an imitation of my father, “Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja!” Though the effort of moving in this inferno was exhausting, I started to clear the table, for usually at this hour we had a glass of lemonade and a sandwich of sardines or cheese. “Don’t touch my belongings!” cried my mother. “Don’t you dare!”

“Oh, Mamma!” I said, hoping to hide my alarm under impatience. “Don’t be silly, Mamma. I’m not going to do anything to your lovely table-runners. I’m only going to fix us a little supper.”