Rosie paused impressively, then concluded with the d.a.m.ning statement: "All the time she was taking care of that baby she never once boiled a nipple! Never once!"

George blinked his eyes in puzzled thought. "Do you got to boil 'em?"

For a moment Rosie glared unspeakable things. Then she answered with crushing emphasis: "You certainly do!"

George moved uneasily. "No hard feelings, Rosie. I was just askin'."

Rosie was magnanimous. "I'm not blaming you, Jarge. You're a man and not supposed to understand about sterilizing. But I do say it's disgraceful in a mother of eight.... Why, do you know what ma was feeding Geraldine when I took hold of her? Nothing but that old-fashioned baby-food that n.o.body but ignur'nt people use now. It's the first thing they hand out to you at the drug-store, if you don't know the difference. It makes babies fat but it don't give them one bit of strength, and people like ma suppose if a baby's fat, of course, it's all right. Oh, such ignur'nce!" Rosie sighed wearily and cast long-suffering eyes to heaven.

Balancing a conciliatory knife on his finger, George appealed to her as man to man: "Now, Rosie, see here: I'm not saying that you don't know all about babies, 'cause I think you do. I know the way you been finding out things at the Little Mothers' Cla.s.s and I know the way you study that book. But facts is facts, Rosie, and after all, your ma has raised five kids out of eight, and that ain't so bad."

"Go on." Rosie looked at him challengingly.

George had no more to say.

Rosie had. "Jarge Riley, you know as much about babies as a rabbit!

Don't you know that Geraldine is a bottle-baby?"

An expression of helpless wonderment spread over George's face. "Why, Rosie, ain't they all bottle-babies? Seems to me I always seen 'em give bottles to all of 'em."

"All of them bottle-babies! Jarge, you're more ignur'nt than I supposed.

Why, every last baby my mother's had except Geraldine has been a breast-baby!"

The pink of an unexpected embarra.s.sment mounted to George's shiny cheekbones.

Rosie surveyed him critically. "I suppose, now that you come to think about it, it seems to you they must all be breast-babies, too. Tell me, ain't that so?"

"Search me if it ain't!" George spoke in candid bewilderment.

"That just shows how much you know and yet you're willing to sit there and argue with me. Now I suppose you think it takes as much brains to raise a breast-baby as a bottle-baby." There was a question in Rosie's tone but George, breathing hard, had no opinion to hazard. After a moment of impressive silence, Rosie continued: "Any ordinary, ignur'nt, healthy woman, with lots of good milk, can raise a baby, but when it comes to bottle-feeding----"

Rosie broke off suddenly and her face took on the expression of a listening mother.

"Rosie! Rosie!" Mrs. O'Brien's voice called. "Geraldine's awake and is crying for you."

Rosie paused long enough to say, in parting: "There's lots more I could tell you, Jarge, if I had time."

"Oh, don't mind me, Rosie. Just run along. I'm sure Geraldine needs you." George spoke with a certain relief. The weight of the new knowledge that Rosie had already imposed upon him seemed as much as he could bear for the present.

Rosie left him. She felt cheered and comforted, as talking out her troubles with George always cheered and comforted her. Dear old George!

Rosie didn't know what she would do without him.

It was well that she had the consciousness of his friendly interest to support her, for the day was to prove a trying one. Not a breath of air stirred, and Geraldine, languid and feverish, tossed and fretted unceasingly. Ordinarily Rosie could have given her whole attention to the ailing baby, but today she had to take her mother's place as cook for dinner, since a large family washing required all of Mrs. O'Brien's time and strength. If Geraldine would only have fallen off to sleep, Rosie could have managed simply enough; but the poor child could not sleep. So Rosie spent a frantic morning running back and forth between kitchen and front room.

"Why, Rosie, what ails you? You're not eating a bite," her father remarked during dinner.

"It's too hot to eat," Rosie murmured.

"Give me your meat!" Jack cried out. "Please, Rosie!"

Without a word, Rosie pa.s.sed him her plate.

In mid-afternoon, when it was time for Rosie to go about her business of delivering papers, she entrusted the care of Geraldine to Janet McFadden. For several days now she had been employing Janet for this duty. Out of her own earnings she was paying Janet two cents a day, and she did not grudge the money. Janet was the one person to whom she was willing to entrust Geraldine at this critical time. Janet knew as much about babies as Rosie herself, for she had gone to the Little Mother cla.s.ses with Rosie and had faithfully studied the book. So Rosie started out with the feeling that she need not hurry back.

She loitered along slowly; after the rush of home it was good to loiter.

Even the blazing sun was restful compared with home and its unending demands. Rosie covered the ground at snail's pace, resting at the least provocation of shade, and stopping to look at the least hint of anything happening or likely to happen.

It was five o'clock when she reached home again, and time to give Geraldine her afternoon bath. Mrs. O'Brien was still at the ironing-board and Rosie had to shift clothes-horses to find a place on the floor for the big basin.

"Ah, now, and ain't Rosie the kind sister to be giving Geraldine a nice bath!" Mrs. O'Brien began in her usual tone and manner. "Your poor ma wishes there was some one to give her a nice bath!" She rambled on while Rosie splashed Geraldine and then began wrapping her in a towel.

"I wouldn't moind it so much if only it cooled off of nights." Mrs.

O'Brien wiped her moist face with her ap.r.o.n, and sighed. "It's played out I am, Rosie. I can't stand another minute." She took a long, uncertain breath and dropped heavily into a chair.

Rosie, with Geraldine in her arms, paused in the doorway. She, too, wanted to escape from the hot kitchen, but something in her mother's tone held her.

Mrs. O'Brien swayed listlessly in her chair. "It's sick at me stomach I'm feelin'. The smell o' the kitchen goes agin' me.... Rosie dear----"

Mrs. O'Brien broke off to look at Rosie a moment in silent appeal.

"Rosie dear, do ye think just for tonight ye could cook the supper for me? I hate to ask you--I do that, for ye've had a hard day of it with poor wee Geraldine fretting her life away. And I'm not forgetting that ye helped me this noon. I wouldn't be asking another thing of you today if I could help it, but I'm clean tuckered out ironin' them last shirt-waists for Ellen, and I tell ye, Rosie, I feel like I'd faint if I thried to stand up in front of that stove."

Tears of self-pity came to Rosie's eyes and she wanted to cry out: "And what about me? Don't you suppose I'm tired, too?" But the sight of her mother's face going suddenly pale and of her hands beginning to shake, checked her, and she said, quietly enough: "All right, Ma, I will. You take Geraldine and go out in front. Maybe it's a little cooler there."

Mrs. O'Brien started off, murmuring gratefully: "Ah, Rosie dear, ye're a darlint and I don't know what I'd do without you!"

Rosie, left to herself, instead of taking comfort at thought of her own n.o.bility of conduct, leaned miserably against the kitchen door and burst into tears.... "I don't see why I always got to do all the disagreeable things in this house, and I always do got to, too! I--I--I'm tired, I am!"

She sobbed on awhile brokenly, then slowly dried her eyes, for it was half-past five and time to set to work for supper.

CHAPTER XIX

CRAZY WITH THE HEAT

Rosie was spoken of in the family as a good cook, but this afternoon there was so little of any housewifely pride left in her that she fried the potatoes as carelessly as Ellen would have fried them, and she scorched the ham. She set the table after some fashion, and then, when all was ready, went through the house calling, "Supper's ready! Supper's ready!"

As the family straggled in, Rosie went on to her next duty of putting George Riley's supper into a tin pail.

"Better hurry," Terence warned her. "You'll be missing Jarge's car."

"I can't hurry any faster," Rosie murmured; but she did, nevertheless, s.n.a.t.c.h up the pail and start off.

It seemed to her the street was even hotter and more breathless than the smoky kitchen. The late afternoon sun was still beating down on pavements and houses and people, fiercely, unceasingly, as it had been since early morning, and all things alike looked worn and dusty and utterly fatigued. Little shop-girls were trailing listlessly home, their hats crooked, their black waists limp with perspiration, their hair hanging about their pale faces in shiny, damp strings. Yet, tired as they were, they were still attempting forlorn, giggly little jokes and friendly greetings.

One girl called out in pa.s.sing: "Gee, Rosie, ain't this the limit?"

Another asked facetiously: "Well, kid, how does this weather suit you?"

and a third stopped her to exclaim breathlessly: "Say, Rosie, ain't you just crazy with the heat!"