"Mother, mother,--why, mother!"
There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby's voice.
"There, there, John, I--I didn't mean to--truly I didn't!" quavered the
little old lady.
John dropped on one knee and caught the fluttering fingers. "Mother,
what is it?"
"It--it isn't anything; truly it isn't," urged the tremulous voice.
"Is any one unkind to you?" John's eyes grew stern. "The boys, or--
Margaret?"
The indignant red mounted to the faded cheek. "John! How can you ask?
Every one is kind, kind, so very kind to me!"
"Well, then, what is it?"
There was only a sob in reply. "Come, come," he coaxed gently.
For a moment Nancy Wetherby's breath was held suspended, then it came in
a burst with a rush of words.
"Oh, John, John, I'm so useless, so useless, so dreadfully useless!
Don't you see? Not a thing, not a person needs me. The kitchen has the
cook and the maids. The baby has two or three nurses. Not even this room
needs me--there's a girl to dust it each day. Once I slipped out of bed
and did it first--I did, John; but she came in, and when I told her, she
just curtsied and smiled and kept right on, and--she didn't even skip
one chair! John, dear John, sometimes it seems as though even my
own self doesn't need me.
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