"Sit down," Hertha commanded but with a quaver in her voice.
"Oh, I couldn't sit down," Tom answered in an argumentative way. "I's clean forgotten how. I stand so long in the corner of the car, with one hand on the wheel like this," imitating his position in the elevator, "and one arm going out like this," opening and shutting an imaginary door, "that I reckon I'll soon be doing it in my sleep. It ain't natural for an elevator boy to sit."
Hertha's mouth drooped, and yet her heart glowed at her boy's thoughtfulness. From his entrance at the basement door until he left she knew he would look after her and see that she suffered nothing from his presence in her white home.
"Tell me first if they're all well?" she asked.
"Yes'm, they're doing nicely. Mammy's been ailing some this winter, Ellen says, but she's a heap better now."
"What's been the matter?" Hertha questioned sharply.
"Oh, just ailing," Tom said vaguely. "There ain't anything rightly the matter."
"But she's better now?"
"Oh, yes, and Ellen's had a good year at school and the hens are laying. Mammy told about the eggs they had for Sunday breakfast."
"Truly?" Hertha said. "What Sunday?"