"She didn't seem well, and I persuaded her."
"Shouldn't mind if you was to persuade her again," with another satisfied look. "It's—comfortable."
Marigold dished him up a nice little supper, cooked out of the veriest odds and ends. Mrs. Plunkett would have served them cold, or in a half-warmed greasy mess. Plunkett smacked his lips.
"That's something like!" he repeated.
"Father, please don't say anything about it to mother. I do want to get her to let me do things; and there isn't a chance if—"
"If she gets jealous, eh?"
"I don't want her to feel that you think my way better than hers, that's all. If I was her, and she me, I shouldn't like it, I know."
Plunkett laughed. "All right, my girl. So long as you make things comfortable, I don't care how it's managed. I'll hold my tongue—see if I don't."
Marigold was astonished, not only that evening, but during many days afterward, to find how little her thoughts were engrossed by James Todd. Pity for and sympathy with her suffering stepmother left little room for aught else. Mrs. Plunkett, having once given in, made no further effort to keep up, and sank into a complete invalid. Everything was left in the hands of Marigold. She might scour and scrub, rub and polish, dust and arrange, spend and cook, as she chose.
To her delight, the little house might once again look as it had done in past days, under the rule of Marigold's own mother. Mrs. Plunkett ceased to resist. Probably the relief of no longer fighting to do what was beyond her power mastered all other sensations, and with the cessation of the struggle, came also a marked decrease in irritability.