There was the baby, to be sure; but the baby was always attended
by one, and maybe two, white-capped, white-aproned young women. Madam
Wetherby never felt quite sure of herself when with those young women.
There were other young women, too, in whose presence she felt equally
ill at ease; young women in still prettier white aprons and still
daintier white caps; young women who moved noiselessly in and out of the
halls and parlors and who waited at table each day.
Was there not some spot, some creature, some thing, in all that place
that needed the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye? Surely the day
had not quite come when she could be of no use, no service to her kind!
Her work must be waiting; she had only to find it. She would seek it
out--and that at once. No more of this slothful waiting for the work to
come to her! "Indeed, no!" she finished aloud, her dim eyes alight, her
breath coming short and quick, and her whole frail self quivering with
courage and excitement.
It was scarcely nine o'clock the next morning when a quaint little
figure in a huge gingham apron (slyly abstracted from the bottom of a
trunk) slipped out of the rooms given over to the use of John Wetherby's
mother. The little figure tripped softly, almost stealthily, along the
hall and down the wide main staircase.
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