Then came the crash. The estate of the supposedly rich James Whitmore
was found to be deeply involved, and in the end there was only a
pittance for the widow and her two daughters.
Mrs. Whitmore was not told of this at once. She was so ill and helpless
that a more convenient season was awaited. That was nearly ten years
ago--and she had not been told yet.
Concealment had not been difficult at first. The girls had, indeed,
drifted into the deception almost unconsciously, as it certainly was not
necessary to burden the ears of the already sorely afflicted woman with
the petty details of the economy and retrenchment on the other side of
her door.
If her own luxuries grew fewer, the change was so gradual that the
invalid did not notice it, and always her blindness made easy the
deception of those about her.
Even the move to another home was accomplished without her realizing it
--she was taken to the hospital for a month's treatment, and when the
month was ended she was tenderly carried home and laid on her own bed;
and she did not know that "home" now was a cheap little flat in Harlem
instead of the luxurious house on the avenue where her children were
born.
She was too ill to receive visitors, and was therefore all the more
dependent on her daughters for entertainment.
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