Thorne's grandmother. Over the fireplace the whole room lay drowned in a pool of dim old mirror.
She was hungry; she went out to the kitchen for some breakfast. Black Clara was lying on her folded arms on the kitchen table, her behind high in air, one large foot trailing on its side on the floor, reading the morning paper. She gave a leap and a shout when Evelyn spoke to her.
"Isn't it a divine day, Clara? It's so lovely I couldn't stay in bed."
Clara glanced at the ordinary day, and thrust out a lower lip like a camel's.
"Will you make me some coffee? I have to go out."
While the coffee bubbled in the percolator and Clara scraped the scorch off the toast, she tried to read the morning paper. José Martinez, young Mexican, was hanged to-day for the murder of his sweetheart, Angelina Perez—jealousy. . . . Field mice are already leaving their nests, farmers report. . . . Woman of fifty weds youth of seventeen. . . . The very large hat, shadowy, picturesque, imported magnolias $1.95, pond lilies $1.25 to $2.50. . . . The wedding of Miss Rosamond Yardley, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Horace Garrison Yardley, and Louis Ricardo, followed by a reception at the Colony Club—poor Susette!
No use trying to read; she was too happy.
"Out on the street she felt the happiness and pain of the people who passed washing through her in
