"Grandmother," Elizabeth cried, "why are these children neglected like this? Are they so poor or what?"
"They ain't no poorer than a great many other folks. Their mother won't do anything for them—that's all."
"But why?"
"She don't like work. Mercy me! They've et a dozen cookies already. You fill up their glasses, Elizabeth. I stirred half a cup o' cream into the pitcher so's to be sure they was nourished."
"Why isn't something done about them? The Charity Organization Society, or somebody, ought to take up the case."
"The only organization society we got is the fire department. These children don't need putting out, they need taking in more, I should say. If one person in the world lays down and refuses to do what the Lord requires of him he puts a powerful lot o' machinery out o' gear. Mis' Steppe—she just refuses to do her part in the Lord's scheme."
"Is she old and ugly?"
"She's young and pretty if she'd fix herself up some. She come from real good folks, too, but when she see how hard it was to live and take care o' her children like other folks, she just decided to lay down, and down she lay. Most all of us feels inclined to shirk our responsibilities at one time or another, but most of us thinks better of it after a spell. She thought worse of it, Mis' Steppe did. Too bad you don't like sugar-molasses cookies, Elizabeth."
"I do," Elizabeth blushed. "I was only just waiting for the children to get all they wanted."
"They'll never do that, but they got all they can hold. You open the screen door, Elizabeth——Scat, out you go," she said, shooing at the Steppe family as if they were so many chickens, and the children scattered instantly, chickenwise, onto the lawn, and down the path to the gate. "Too much of anything is good for nothing," she concluded, tranquilly.