Page:Conflict (1927).pdf/161



knelt down before the gas stove and opened the door. She drew the roasting-pan toward her a little way, and proceeded to baste the round mound of sizzling flesh, turning her face away as it spurted and fumed at her as if it protested. It was a terribly hot day. Already 92 by the thermometer on the shaded back porch, and it wasn't twelve o'clock yet. Why had she attempted to roast a beef to-day? And why did she care how it was roasted? Just so it wasn't raw? Just so it was material to keep the children alive and the doctor's bills low? She shoved the beef back into place and closed the oven door.

When she stood up she leaned a moment against the kitchen table and closed her eyes. Lately, when she stood up, things swam and looked dark for a moment afterward. And it was necessary to lean down so often! There were so many things to pick up in a small apartment, with three children and no one but a seventeen-year-old negro girl, who came Monday mornings and two afternoons a week, to help. She opened her eyes and gazed through the liquid air in which she found she was still immersed,