"I was sent here by a brakeman on the midnight express," put in Bert.
"Oh, Tom," said the woman, her face clearing. "Tom's always sending us people. Why, yes; I've got room for you, I guess—this room here." She pushed open a folding door leading into what had been her parlor.
"You can have this."
"Four dollars."
"Eight dollars f'r the two of us. All right; we'll be with you a week or two if we have luck."
The woman smiled and shut the door. Bert thought how much she looked like his mother in the back—the same tired droop in the shoulders, the same colorless dress, once blue or brown, now a peculiar drab, characterless with much washing.
"Excuse me, won't you? I've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves at home."
"Now, Jim," said Bert, "I'm going t' stay right here while you go and order our trunks around—just t' pay you off f'r last night."
"All right," said Hartley, cheerily going out. After getting warm, Bert sat down at the organ and played a gospel hymn or two from the Moody and Sankey hymnal. He was in the midst of the chorus of "Let your lower lights," etc., when a young woman entered the room. She had a whisk-broom in her hand, and stood a picture of gentle surprise. Bert wheeled about on his stool.