“She has been the sole support, and nurse as well, of a bed-ridden aunt for years. During this last term—she teaches in a big school in Bannister, Massachusetts—she had a very hard time. She has always had trouble with her girls; and evidently doesn’t love them.”
“Not so’s you’d notice it,” grumbled Helen.
“And they made her a good deal of trouble. The old aunt became more exacting toward the last, and finally Miss Miggs was up almost all night with the invalid and then was harassed in the schoolroom all day by the thoughtless girls.”
“Oh, dear me, Ruthie! now you are trying to find excuses for the mean old thing.”
“I’m telling you—that’s all.”
“Well! I don’t know that I want you to tell me,” sniffed Helen. “I don’t feel as ugly toward that Miggs woman as I did.”
“I feel very angry with her myself,” Ruth said. “It is hard for me to get over anger, I am afraid.”
“But you are slow to wrath. ‘Beware the anger of a patient man’ says—says—well, somebody. ‘Overhaul your book and, when found, make note of,’” giggled Helen. “Well! how did Martha get away from the aunt?”
“The aunt got away from her,” said Ruth, gravely. “She died—just before the end of the term. Altogether poor Miss Miggs was ‘all in,’ as the saying is.”
Helen sniffed again. She would not own up that she was affected by the story.