ODOUR OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS

"Such nonsense!" said the mother, turning
away. The child put the pale chrysanthemums to
her lips, murmuring :

" Don't they smell beautiful! "

Her mother gave a short laugh.

" No," she said, " not to me. It was chrysanthe-
mums when I married him, and chrysanthemums
when you were born, and the first time they ever
brought him home drunk, he'd got brown chrysan-
themums in his button-hole."

She looked at the children. Their eyes and their
parted lips were wondering. The mother sat rocking
in silence for some time. Then she looked at the
clock.

" Twenty minutes to six! " In a tone of fine
bitter carelessness she continued : " Eh, he'll not
come now till they bring him. There he'll stick!
But he needn't come rolling in here in his pit-dirt, for
I won't wash him. He can lie on the floor ----
Eh, what a fool I've been, what a fool! And this
is what I came here for, to this dirty hole, rats and
all, for him to slink past his very door. Twice last
week -- he's begun now ---- "

She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table.

While for an hour or more the children played,
subduedly intent, fertile of imagination, united in
fear of the mother's wrath, and in dread of their
father's home-coming, Mrs. Bates sat in her rocking-
chair making a " singlet "* of thick cream-coloured
flannel, which gave a dull wounded sound as she
tore off the grey edge. She worked at her sewing
with energy, listening to the children, and her anger
wearied itself, lay down to rest, opening its eyes