* * * * *
Ten years before, and one week after James Whitmore's death, Mrs. James
Whitmore had been thrown from her carriage, striking on her head and
back.
When she came to consciousness, hours afterward, she opened her eyes on
midnight darkness, though the room was flooded with sunlight. The optic
nerve had been injured, the doctor said. It was doubtful if she would
ever be able to see again.
Nor was this all. There were breaks and bruises, and a bad injury to the
spine. It was doubtful if she would ever walk again. To the little woman
lying back on the pillow it seemed a living death--this thing that had
come to her.
It was then that Margaret and Katherine constituted themselves a
veritable wall of defense between their mother and the world. Nothing
that was not inspected and approved by one or the other was allowed to
pass Mrs. Whitmore's chamber door.
For young women only seventeen and nineteen, whose greatest
responsibility hitherto had been the selection of a gown or a ribbon,
this was a new experience.
At first the question of expense did not enter into consideration.
Accustomed all their lives to luxury, they unhesitatingly demanded it
now; and doctors, nurses, wines, fruits, flowers, and delicacies were
summoned as a matter of course.
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