Part 11 (2/2)

The memory of this visit, and the picture of her niece's heroic efforts to keep her mother and herself from want, proved a veritable ever-present and sharp thorn in the side.

”Here I am, alone in the world, with plenty to supply all my wishes and some to spare,” she thought one evening. We must do her justice; she was not miserly, but she was selfish--she wished to insure for her lifetime comfort for herself, and the gratification of her desires. ”Here am I with plenty and to spare, while those of my own flesh and blood are struggling to keep the wolf from the door,” she mused.

Having commenced to reproach herself she did not hesitate, for at every step seeing herself as others saw her, she discovered more cause to regret her att.i.tude toward her sister.

”Have I been false to my trust?” she soliloquized, questioningly.

”No--not exactly--because I gave no promise. And yet--Bertha supposed I would follow her request. However, I am not bound to do as she wished.

”Bertha would not have left me in charge had she supposed I would not carry out her wishes,” she continued. ”Probably she would not have given her property to Esther. She is so careless and extravagant that such a course would have been equal to her throwing the money away. Suppose the money had been left in trust to Flora? Would Esther have done more than I have done? No, she would have wasted it. What is the difference?

Nothing; I am doing as Esther would have done. Anyway, I will leave all to Flora, who will enjoy it after I am dead, and that will make it all right.”

Another thing Mrs. Martin tried to argue in support of the idea that she had done all for the best, was that Flora had developed such astonis.h.i.+ng qualities of self-government and ability. ”She has almost made another woman of that mother of hers,” she said to herself. ”One can easily see that the material for a real, sound, sensible, practical woman is not in Esther, and if Flora were not there with her she would be the same as before, only worse.”

There was a good deal of truth in what Mrs. Martin said. Some people cannot do or be anything without a definite motive, or an active example. But what did all this arguing amount to? Nothing at all, save to keep her mind in a constant state of turmoil, by her efforts to ease her conscience.

At last, with the constant strain she became mentally exhausted, and in spite of her efforts to the contrary for a long time lay upon the bed, a sufferer from nervous prostration. Her brain was unnaturally active, and she gained but little benefit from her enforced quiet. A neighboring physician was called, but found it impossible to benefit her in her present condition. He might prescribe medicines to meet certain symptoms in her case, but he could not reach the seat of the trouble. She did not consider that it was her business to add a description of her mental condition to that of her physical one. She grew no better, and finally she decided to take a course of heroic treatment.

First, she proceeded to pay her physician and to inform him that she had no further need of his services, much to that gentleman's disgust, who left muttering that it was queer that the patient should be the one to decide whether or not the doctor had been of service to her.

Next, she wrote in a feeble, trembling, and unintelligible way, the following short, blunt note:

”NIECE FLORA:--I am sick. I want to see you.

”S. MARTIN.”

Flora and her mother were sitting sewing very busily that afternoon when the postman rapped on the door.

The sun was streaming in at the window, no longer adorned by the sweet potato, which was long since dead, but touching brightly the green leaves and scarlet blossoms of some geraniums--some of Ruth's ”gerangums,” according to Jem, that held the place of honor.

”From Aunt Sarah, mother,” said Flora, carelessly, handing it to Mrs.

Hazeley, who in turn read the short note.

”Well, Flora dear; what will you do about it?” she questioned, resuming her work.

”Oh, I guess I had better go and see her; hadn't I?” asked Flora, as she cut her thread.

”You may do as you please about the matter,” returned Mrs. Hazeley, and there the matter dropped.

They continued their work in silence, their thoughts as busy as their fingers.

CHAPTER XII.

LED AWAY.

And what had become of Harry Hazeley in all this time? Let us go back a little.

<script>