When Rebecca entered the house, her mother was standing over the stove, making milk-toast for supper.

The boiling milk steamed up fiercely in her face.

"What makes you so long behind the others ?" she demanded, without turning, stirring the milk as she spoke.
"I guess I ain't much, am I ?" Rebecca said, evasively.

She tried to make her voice sound as it usually did, but she could not.

It broke and took on faltering cadences, as if she were intoxicated with some subtle wine of the spirit.
Her mother looked around at her.