THE TORCH UPLIFTED
So the next day Olga brought home her work, and Sonia, wearing not only her sister’s best suit but her hat, shoes, and gloves as well, set off down town. She departed with a distinctly holiday air, tossing from the doorway a kiss to the baby and a good-bye to Olga. But Olga cherished small hope of her success. She felt no confidence in her sister’s sincerity, and did not believe that she really wanted to find work.
For once the baby was awake—usually she seemed half asleep, lying where she was put, and only stirring occasionally with weak whimpering cries. But this morning the blue eyes were open, and Olga stopped beside the chair in which the baby was lying and looked down at the small face, so pathetically grave and quiet.
“You poor little mortal,” she said, “I wonder what life holds for you—if you live. I almost hope you won’t, for it doesn’t seem as if there’s much chance for you.”
The solemn blue eyes stared up at her as if the baby too were wondering what chance there was for her. Olga laid her face for a moment against one little white cheek; then pulling out her bench she set to work.
At twelve o’clock Sonia came back. “O dear!” she exclaimed with a swift glance around the room, “I hoped you’d have dinner ready, Olga. I’m tired to death.”
Without a word Olga put aside her work and went to the gas stove. Sonia pulled off her shoes—Olga’s shoes—and took off Olga’s hat, and rocked until the meal was ready.
“What luck did you have?” Olga inquired when they were at the table.
“Not a bit. I tell you, Olga, you’re a mighty lucky girl to have that work to do.” She nodded towards the bench.
Olga ignored that. “Where did you try?” she asked.