The little woman plainly had forgotten us. She was no longer
Mrs. Jonas Whitermore among a crowd of strangers listening to a great
man's Old-Home-Day speech. She was just a loving, heart-hungry, tired,
all-but-discouraged wife hearing for the first time from the lips of her
husband that he knew and cared and understood.
"Through storm and sunshine, she was always there at her post, aiding,
encouraging, that I might be helped," the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was
saying. "Week in and week out she fought poverty, sickness, and
disappointments, and all without a murmur, lest her complaints distract
me for one precious moment from my work. Even the nights brought her no
rest, for while I slept, she stole from cot to cradle and from cradle to
crib, covering outflung little legs and arms, cooling parched little
throats with water, quieting fretful whimpers and hushing threatening
outcries with a low 'Hush, darling, mother's here. Don't cry! You'll
wake father--and father must have his sleep.' And father had it--that
sleep, just as he had the best of everything else in the house: food,
clothing, care, attention--everything.
"What mattered it if her hands did grow rough and toil-worn? Mine were
left white and smooth--for my work.
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