“It went to pay the debts and to carry out the Doctor's wishes.”
“'Bout printin' all them books he wrote over again, an' bringin' 'em out in the same kind of covers?”
“Yes.”
“How many was there, in all?”
“Twenty.”
Myrtella compressed her lips, and with difficulty refrained from comment. However freely the Doctor's will had been discussed in public, no criticism of it was brooked in the presence of Miss Lady.
“As to your leaving,” she said, changing the subject, while Myrtella vented her wrath on the flies, “you know you have wanted to go for months. It was only your goodness that made you come out here with us after you had saved money enough to start your boarding-house. We haven't been paying you enough, I know that, and—and we haven't enough to go on even as we are.”
Myrtella wheeled in the doorway, her face purple with anger:
“If you think I'm a-goin' an' leave you children in this big house, messin' up yer own food, an' lettin' everybody run over you, you are mighty mistaken! Miss Hattie 'd be having indigestion inside a week, an' Bertie 'd git the croup, an' you'd have every female Queerington that could buy a railroad ticket comin' an' settin' down on you!”
“But what can we do, Myrtella? I tell you the money is giving out!”