"There. That sounds more natural. I guess you're all right. But don't go and overdo. Will you promise me that?"
"I never do. I'm a regular parasite."
"Well, it agrees with your disposition, so keep it up." Jean bent and kissed her. "You're really much nicer than you used to be, mummy. Pneumonia must be good for the soul."
"Got me into line at last, haven't you? But remember, even the effects of pneumonia wear off."
"Then I'll take my innings while they're going. Remember, if you go to service this afternoon you are to call a taxi. Do you hear? You are not to take any of those 'nice, quick walks' you are so addicted to. There's a wind like a knife blade to-day. Will you promise?"
"I'll use my judgment, dear."
"I leave you in peace. You are yourself. I don't believe you ever had pneumonia. Mummy, you've been faking."
Jean gave her mother another quick kiss, and went. From the street below, she looked up and waved. Martha waved back.
But when Jean was out of sight, Martha crossed to the side table where Jean had laid Mary's letter. Part of it Jean had read aloud, the first two paragraphs and on from the middle of the third page, but the part unread she had returned to twice, and when she slipped the letter back into its envelope, Martha had seen her hands tremble. Martha's own hands shook as she unfolded the pages, scrawled with the doctor's heavy black writing, vigorous and violent as Mary herself.
"Now listen, Jean, it's one chance in a million and you can have it if you want. I shall expire with envy, but I've just enough sanity left to know that I'm too old. To go to China and organize a kind of Red Cross—Associated Charities—Relief of the Poor, with trifles like directing the education of feminine China thrown in, because, years ago, little Wong Lee used our gymnasium and I treated him half way decently! He is now minister of something-or-other in New China and he throws this pearl at me. I would give twenty years of my life to do it, but I haven't twenty left, not ten even of any great use in such a big undertaking. But you! The old courage would come back. Things would be worth while again. You would——" Here a word had been scratched, but Martha bent long and close over the paper and at last she made it out. "You would forget."