"Mother!" she cried; and at the word the knife dropped from the
trembling, withered old fingers and clattered to the floor. "Why,
mother!"
"I--I was helping," quavered a deprecatory voice.
Something in the appealing eyes sent a softer curve to Margaret
Wetherby's lips.
"Yes, mother; that was very kind of you," said John's wife gently. "But
such work is quite too hard for you, and there's no need of your doing
it. Nora will finish these," she added, lifting the pan of potatoes to
the table, "and you and I will go upstairs to your room. Perhaps we'll
go driving by and by. Who knows?"
In thinking it over afterwards Nancy Wetherby could find no fault with
her daughter-in-law. Margaret had been goodness itself, insisting only
that such work was not for a moment to be thought of. John's wife was
indeed kind, acknowledged Madam Wetherby to herself, yet two big tears
welled to her eyes and were still moist on her cheeks after she had
fallen asleep.
It was perhaps three days later that John Wetherby's mother climbed the
long flight of stairs near her sitting-room door, and somewhat timidly
entered one of the airy, sunlit rooms devoted to Master Philip Wetherby.
The young woman in attendance respectfully acknowledged her greeting,
and Madam Wetherby advanced with some show of courage to the middle of
the room.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212