Esther | Page 7

it the brown room,
because it was wainscoted in oak); "will you have it now, or would you
like to see mother?"
"You had better have tea first and see your mother afterward," observed
Uncle Geoffrey; but I would not take this prudent counsel. On the stairs
I came upon Jack, curled up on a window-sill, with Smudge, our old
black cat, in her arms, and was welcomed by both of them with much
effusion. Jack was a tall, thin girl, all legs and arms, with a droll,
freckled face and round blue eyes, with all the awkwardness of fourteen,
and none of its precocity. Her real name was Jacqueline, but we had
always called her Jack, for brevity, and because, with her cropped head
and rough ways, she resembled a boy more than a girl; her hair was
growing now, and hung about her neck in short ungainly lengths, but I
doubt whether in its present stage it was any improvement. I am not at
all sure strangers considered Jack a prepossessing child, she was so
awkward and overgrown, but I liked her droll face immensely. Fred
was always finding fault with her and snubbing her, which brought him
nothing but pert replies; then he would entreat mother to send her to
school, but somehow she never went. Dot could not spare her, and
mother thought there was plenty of time, so Jack still roamed about at
her own sweet will; riding Dapple barebacked round the paddock,
milking Cherry, and feeding the chickens; carrying on some pretense at
lessons with Carrie, who was not a very strict mistress, and plaguing
Fred, who had nice ways and hated any form of untidiness.
"Oh, you dear thing!" cried Jack, leaping from the window-seat and
nearly strangling me, while Smudge rubbed himself lovingly against
my dress; "oh, you dear, darling, delightful old Esther, how pleased I
am to see you!" (Certainly Jack was not undemonstrative.) "Oh, it has
been so horrid the last few days--father ill, and mother always with him,

and Fred as cross as two sticks, and Carrie always too busy or too tired
for any one to speak to her; and Dot complaining of pain in his back
and not caring to play, oh!" finished Jack, with a long-drawn sigh, "it
has been almost too horrid."
"Hush, Jack," was my sole reply; for there was dear mother coming
down the passage toward us. I had only been away from her two
months, and yet it struck me that her hair was grayer and her face was
thinner than it used to be, and there were lines on her forehead that I
never remember to have seen before; but she greeted me in her old
affectionate way, putting back my hair from my face to look at me, and
calling me her dear child. "But I must not stop a moment, Esther," she
said hurriedly, "or father will miss me; take off your hat, and rest and
refresh yourself, and then you shall come up and see him."
"But, mother, where is Dot?"
"In there," motioning toward the sick room; "he is always there, we
cannot keep him out," and her lip trembled. When Jack and I returned
to the brown room, we found the others gathered round the table. Carrie,
who was pouring out the tea, pointed to the seat beside her.
It was the first dreary meal I had ever remembered in the brown room;
my first evening at home had always been so happy. The shallow blue
teacups and tiny plates always seemed prettier than other people's china,
and nothing ever tasted so delicious as our home-made brown bread
and butter.
But this evening the flavor seemed spoiled. Carrie sat in mother's place
looking sad and abstracted, and fingering her little silver cross
nervously. Fred was downcast and out of spirits, returning only brief
replies to Uncle Geoffrey's questions, and only waking up to snub Jack
if she spoke a word. Oh, how I wished Allan would make his
appearance and put us all right! It was quite a relief when I heard
mother's voice calling me, and she took me into the great cool room
where father lay.
Dot was curled up in mother's great arm-chair, with his favorite book of

natural history; he slipped a hot little hand in mine as I passed him.
Dot was our name for him because he was so little, but he had been
called Frank, after our father; he was eight years old, but he hardly
looked bigger than a child of six. His poor back was crooked, and he
was lame from hip-disease; sometimes for weeks together the cruel
abscesses wasted his strength, at other times he was tolerably free from
pain; even at his worst times Dot was a