Near the only window in the room was a kitchen table. Around it sat the father, the mother, a little boy of nine, two younger girls, and a little round-faced boy of four, while two other children, mere babies, were playing on the floor. The people at the table were sticking marguerites onto wreaths, about ten flowers to a wreath. The flowers were in bundles stuck together, and the little boy took them apart and handed them to the other children, who took yellow stems from other bundles, dipped them into paste, then into the center of the marguerite and handed the finished flower to the father or mother, who placed it in position on the wreath. They worked quickly, showing long practice.
The mother gave chairs to her guests; then went back to her work.
"I have come, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, "to tell you about the country."
"Si," and the dark Italian face brightened. "I ready go any day."
"I am sorry, awfully sorry, but we have no place for you this year."
The Italian woman looked at the speaker uncomprehendingly.
"Si?"
"I am sorry," Mrs. Harris began again, speaking slowly, "that we cannot take you. We have not been able to enlarge the house, and there were so many applications ahead of you."
The woman looked at her blankly for a moment, then Drusilla saw that she understood. Her mouth drooped and quivered, her hands faltered in their work, but only for a moment. Mechanically she put the flower into the paste, then placed it on the wreath. She worked quietly for several moments.
"I hope next year, Mrs. Tolenti—"