at the alarm-clock on the kitchen mantel. Eleven-thirty, and she hadn't as much as glanced into the boys' room yet. She knew how it would look.
She wasn't disappointed. Standing in the doorway, leaning against the casing, she sighed. Not so much at the confusion that met her eyes—untidy beds, open bureau drawers, books, toys, children's clothes of all descriptions, scattered everywhere in dreadful disarray, as at the proof it was to her of her failure as a mother. Children shouldn't be allowed to leave a room in such a condition. But lately it was so much easier not to discipline—pick up the toys, close the drawers, hang up the clothes herself. Quietly. Without controversy. It occurred to her that it would be easier still to leave the room as it was. After all, making a bed was but a convention. Why bother so? But even while she contemplated this new avenue of escape she was putting the beds into some sort of order, pulling up the blankets, tucking them in. She ought to change the sheets, she supposed, and she hadn't turned the matresses for weeks! But she was so tired, and no one would know or care.
That was one advantage in having moved away from Wallbridge. Keeping up appearances even to the extent of clean sheets had been such a burden in Wallbridge. She had been proud then. She hadn't wanted pity from her friends. She and Felix had
