In the rear were two long lines of drying clothes. A pang of pity went to Matt's heart. No matter how heavily the hand of grief had fallen on Mrs. Traquair, she could not neglect the toil necessary to supply the needs of herself and of her fatherless children.
Three youngsters—a boy and two girls, the boy being the oldest and not over six—stood in a frightened huddle on the front walk, near the gate. The smaller of the two girls was crying.
"What's the matter?" asked Matt, halting beside the forlorn little group.
"We're 'fraid to go in the house," answered the boy, looking up at Matt.
"Do you live there?"
"Yes'r, but we're 'fraid. He's in there with mom, an' he's talkin' like he was mad."
"Who are you?"
"Teddy Traquair. I'm six, an' sis, here, is risin' five. Mary Jane's only three."
"Who's talking with your mother, Ted?"
"Murg. I hate him, he's so mean to mom. He was mean to pap, too. But pap's dead—he got kilt when the flyin' machine dropped."