The face of that little poor room was as familiar to Jerome as the face of his mother.

From his earliest memory the high bureau had stood against the west wall, near the window, and a little round table, with a white towel and a rosewood box on it, in the corner at the head of the great high-posted bedstead, which filled the rest of the room, with scant passageway at the foot and one side.

Ann's little body scarcely raised the patchwork quilt on the bed; her face, sunken in the feather pillows, looked small and weazened as a sick child's in the dim light.

She reached out one little bony hand, clutched Jerome's poor jacket, and pulled him close.

"What's goin' to be done ?" she demanded, querulously.