Other Peoples Business | Page 4

did in all their lives before. 'Tisn't any wonder to me that the
elder brother gets a little cranky when he sees the fuss made over the
prodigal, first because he's gone wrong and then because he's going
right, same as decent folks have been doing all the time."
"What do you mean to do, Persis?" Mrs. West's tone indicated that by
some mysterious legerdemain the burden had been shifted. It was now
Persis' problem.
"That'll bear thinking about," Persis returned with no sign of resenting
her friend's assumption. "And while I'm turning it over in my mind, let
Thad alone, and don't wear yourself out worrying." The injunction
probably had a figurative import though Mrs. West interpreted it
literally.
"Wear myself out. I can't so much as wear off a pound. I've been too
upset to eat or sleep for the last two months, and I've been gaining right
along. Most folks can reduce by going without breakfast, but seems as
if it don't make any difference with me whether I touch victuals or not."
She was rising ponderously when Persis checked her. "Your serge, Mis'
West. We were going to see if 'twas worth making over."
"It's time to get supper, Persis, and there ain't a mite of hurry about that
serge. Truth is," explained Mrs. West, lowering her voice to a
confidential murmur, "'twasn't altogether the dress that brought me over.
I sort of hankered for a talk with you. There never was such a hand as
you be, Persis, to hearten a body up."
Persis found no time that evening for grappling with the problem for
which she had voluntarily made herself responsible. The preparation of
Joel's supper was a task demanding time and prayerful consideration,
for as is the case with most chronic invalids, his fastidiousness
concerning his food approached the proportions of a mania. Her efforts
to gratify her brother's insatiable curiosity on points of history and
literature, had put her several hours behind with her sewing, and as she

owned to a most unprofessional pride in keeping her word to the letter,
midnight found her still at work. A few minutes later she folded away
the finished garment and picked from the rag carpet the usual litter of
scraps and basting threads, after which she was at liberty to attend to
that mysterious rite known to the housekeeper as "shutting up for the
night," a rite never to be omitted even in the village of Clematis where
a locked door is held to indicate that somebody is putting on airs.
Candle in hand, Persis paused before a photograph, framed in blue
plush and occupying a prominent position on the mantel. "Good night,
Justin," she said in as matter-of-fact a tone as if she were exchanging
farewells with some chance caller. As the candle flickered, a wave of
expression seemed to cross the face in the plush frame, almost as if it
had smiled.
It was a pleasant young face with a good forehead and frank eyes. The
indeterminate sweetness of the mouth and chin hinted that this was a
man in the making, his strength to be wrought out, his weakness to be
mastered. Like the blue plush the photograph was faded, as were alas,
the roses in Persis' cheeks. It was twenty years since they had kissed
each other good-by in that very room, boy and girl, sure of themselves
and of the future. Justin was going away to make a home for her, and
Persis would wait for him, if need be, till her hair was gray.
He had been unfortunate from the start. Up in the garret, spicy with the
fragrance of dried herbs and of camphor, were his letters, locked away
in a small horse-hair trunk. Twice a year Persis opened the trunk to dust
the letters, and sometimes she drew out the contents of a yellowing
envelope and read a line here and there. These were the letters over
which she had wept long, long before,--blurred in places by youth's hot
tears, the letters she had carried on her heart. They were full of the
excuses in which failure is invariably fertile, breathing from every page
the fatal certainty that luck would soon turn.
The letters became infrequent after old Mr. Ware's "stroke." Persis
understood. For them there could be no thought of marrying nor giving
in marriage while the old man lay helpless. All that Justin could spare
from his scant earnings, little enough, she knew, must be sent home.

And meanwhile Joel having discovered in a three months' illness his
fitness to play the part of invalid, had apparently decided to make the
rôle permanent. Like many another, Persis had found in work and
responsibility, a mysterious solace for the incessant dull ache at her
heart.
That was