Across the Years | Page 8

tea,
Mother--it's getting colder every minute. Will you have the orange
first?"
The slender hands of the blind woman hovered for a moment over the
table, then dropped slowly and found by touch the position of spoons,
plates, and the cup of tea.
"Yes, I have everything. I don't need you any longer, Meg. I don't like
to take so much of your time, dear--you should let Betty do for me."
"But I want to do it," laughed Margaret. "Don't you want me?"
"Want you! That isn't the question, dear," objected Mrs. Whitmore

gently. "Of course, a maid's service can't be compared for an instant
with a daughter's love and care; but I don't want to be selfish--and you
and Kathie never let Betty do a thing for me. There, there! I won't scold
any more. What are you going to do to-day, Meg?"
Margaret hesitated. She was sitting by the window now, in a low chair
near her sister's. In her hands was a garment similar to that upon which
Katherine was still at work.
"Why, I thought," she began slowly, "I'd stay here with you and
Katherine a while."
Mrs. Whitmore set down her empty cup and turned a troubled face
toward the sound of her daughter's voice.
"Meg, dear," she remonstrated, "is it that fancy-work?"
"Well, isn't fancy-work all right?" The girl's voice shook a little.
Mrs. Whitmore stirred uneasily.
"No, it--it isn't--in this case," she protested. "Meg, Kathie, I don't like it.
You are young; you should go out more--both of you. I understand, of
course; it's your unselfishness. You stay with me lest I get lonely; and
you play at painting and fancy-work for an excuse. Now, dearies, there
must be a change. You must go out. You must take your place in
society. I will not have you waste your young lives."
"Mother!" Margaret was on her feet, and Katherine had dropped her
work. "Mother!" they cried again.
"I--I shan't even listen," faltered Margaret. "I shall go and leave you
right away," she finished tremulously, picking up the tray and hurrying
from the room.
It was hours later, after the little woman had trailed once more along
the Axminster path to the bed in the room beyond and had dropped
asleep, that Margaret Whitmore faced her sister with despairing eyes.
"Katherine, what shall we do? This thing is killing me!"
The elder girl's lips tightened. For an instant she paused in her work--
but for only an instant.
"I know," she said feverishly; "but we mustn't give up--we mustn't!"
"But how can we help it? It grows worse and worse. She wants us to go
out--to sing, dance, and make merry as we used to."
"Then we'll go out and--tell her we dance."
"But there's the work."
"We'll take it with us. We can't both leave at once, of course, but old

Mrs. Austin, downstairs, will be glad to have one or the other of us sit
with her an occasional afternoon or evening."
Margaret sprang to her feet and walked twice the length of the room.
"But I've--lied so much already!" she moaned, pausing before her sister.
"It's all a lie--my whole life!"
"Yes, yes, I know," murmured the other, with a hurried glance toward
the bedroom door. "But, Meg, we mustn't give up--'twould kill her to
know now. And, after all, it's only a little while!--such a little while!"
Her voice broke with a half-stifled sob. The younger girl shivered, but
did not speak. She walked again the length of the room and back; then
she sat down to her work, her lips a tense line of determination, and her
thoughts delving into the few past years for a strength that might help
her to bear the burden of the days to come.
* * * * *
Ten years before, and one week after James Whitmore's death, Mrs.
James Whitmore had been thrown from her carriage, striking on her
head and back.
When she came to consciousness, hours afterward, she opened her eyes
on midnight darkness, though the room was flooded with sunlight. The
optic nerve had been injured, the doctor said. It was doubtful if she
would ever be able to see again.
Nor was this all. There were breaks and bruises, and a bad injury to the
spine. It was doubtful if she would ever walk again. To the little
woman lying back on the pillow it seemed a living death--this thing
that had come to her.
It was then that Margaret and Katherine constituted themselves a
veritable wall of defense between their mother and the world. Nothing
that was not inspected and approved by one or the other was allowed to
pass Mrs. Whitmore's chamber door.
For young women only seventeen and nineteen, whose greatest
responsibility hitherto had been the