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washed and cried and cried and washed, as Clara Belle had always



seen her, it was either because of some hidden sorrow, or because

her poor strength seemed all at once to have deserted her.



Just when employment and good fortune had come to the

step-children, and her own were better fed and clothed than ever



before, the pain that had always lurked, constant but dull, near

her tired heart, grew fierce and triumphantly strong; clutching



her in its talons, biting, gnawing, worrying, leaving her each

week with slighter powers of resistance. Still hope was in the



air and a greater content than had ever been hers was in her

eyes; a content that came near to happiness when the doctor



ordered her to keep her bed and sent for Clara Belle. She could

not wash any longer, but there was the ever new miracle of the



Saturday night remittance for household expenses.

"Is your pain bad today, mother," asked Clara Belle, who, only



lately given away, was merely borrowed from Mrs. Fogg for what

was thought to be a brief emergency.



"Well, there, I can't hardly tell, Clara Belle," Mrs. Simpson

replied, with a faint smile. "I can't seem to remember the pain



these days without it's extra bad. The neighbors are so kind;

Mrs. Little has sent me canned mustard greens, and Mrs. Benson



chocolate ice cream and mince pie; there's the doctor's drops to

make me sleep, and these blankets and that great box of eatables



from Mr. Ladd; and you here to keep me comp'ny! I declare I'm

kind o' dazed with comforts. I never expected to see sherry wine



in this house. I ain't never drawed the cork; it does me good

enough jest to look at Mr. Ladd's bottle settin' on the



mantel-piece with the fire shinin' on the brown glass."

Mr. Simpson had come to see his wife and had met the doctor just



as he was leaving the house.

"She looks awful bad to me. Is she goin' to pull through all



right, same as the last time?" he asked the doctor nervously.

"She's going to pull right through into the other world," the



doctor answered bluntly; "and as there don't seem to be anybody

else to take the bull by the horns, I'd advise you, having made



the woman's life about as hard and miserable as you could, to try

and help her to die easy!"



Abner, surprised and crushed by the weight of this verbal

chastisement, sat down on the doorstep, his head in his hands,



and thought a while solemnly. Thought was not an operation he was

wont to indulge in, and when he opened the gate a few minutes



later and walked slowly toward the barn for his horse, he looked

pale and unnerved. It is uncommonly startling, first to see



yourself in another man's scornful eyes, and then, clearly, in

your own.



Two days later he came again, and this time it was decreed that

he should find Parson Carll tying his piebald mare at the post.



Clara Belle's quick eye had observed the minister as he alighted

from his buggy, and, warning her mother, she hastily smoothed the



bedclothes, arranged the medicine bottles, and swept the hearth.

"Oh! Don't let him in!" wailed Mrs. Simpson, all of a flutter at



the prospect of such a visitor. "Oh, dear! They must think over

to the village that I'm dreadful sick, or the minister wouldn't



never think of callin'! Don't let him in, Clara Belle! I'm afraid

he will say hard words to me, or pray to me; and I ain't never



been prayed to since I was a child! Is his wife with him?"

"No; he's alone; but father's just drove up and is hitching at



the shed door."

"That's worse than all!" and Mrs. Simpson raised herself feebly



on her pillows and clasped her hands in despair. "You mustn't let

them two meet, Clara Belle, and you must send Mr. Carll away;



your father wouldn't have a minister in the house, nor speak to

one, for a thousand dollars!"



"Be quiet, mother! Lie down! It'll be all right! You'll only fret

yourself into a spell! The minister's just a good man; he won't



say anything to frighten you. Father's talking with him real




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