Methodical to a degree, it was not enough that her minute directions were followed to the letter; she could not drop it there. When, tired out, I sat by her couch to rest, I would have to listen as she would go over and over the things that had been done, and the things I was to do on the morrow. She nearly broke my back, and To-morrow’s too. Saturday nights were trying times, for she doted on rehearsing all that had been accomplished through the day, and all that we had in the house to eat for over Sunday. Her husband was a prodigious eater, and she wanted to make sure we would not run short. Then, too, it seemed to make her more a part of these things if she could ring the changes on them; so, pitying her helplessness, I humoured these foibles that I now know bordered on morbidity:
“You said you swept off the back porch to-day, dear? I always want it clean for Sunday.”
“Are you sure you scoured the tea kettle—nice and bright?—yes, I’m sure you did. You won’t mind if Cousin Prue asks you about these things, will you?”
“Are the potatoes pared for breakfast? and covered with water, dear? Because, you know, if some are out of the water they get black—yes, you are sure, I’m glad of that.”
“Let’s see—there are four loaves of white bread and two of brown, or is it only three and a half loaves of white? And there is a jar of sugar cookies, and part of a jar of molasses cookies; and you said there was a whole loaf of ginger cake? and some—there is some, dear, isn’t there?—of that one-two-three-and-four cake; you know Uncle—I should say Cousin Richard—is so fond of that; and there are—how many pies are there, dear—one lemon, and two apple pies? and about how much of that custard pie did you say there is left?”
Oh, how weary I got of her endless talk about these matters—the things themselves were bad enough, though I didn’t mind them so much (only I did get very tired). I was willing to wash and rinse the dishcloth till it was sweet and white as a handkerchief, but did not like washing and rinsing it over again after I got back to the sitting room. I was always tempted to shirk polishing the stove, but she was sure to detect it, or I dare say I should have slighted it more frequently, for I never liked to soil my hands. But she had a way of commending me that recompensed a good deal; and if there were criticisms, they were tactfully made:
“Dear, when you have rested a little I wish you would stand the broom up the other way, you know it wears out sooner to rest on the splint end.”
“You dusted behind the mirror carefully, didn’t you? but when you get up, won’t you just straighten it a wee bit?”
“Now, after you have had a good rest, won’t you sweep off the sidewalk?—I see the leaves have fallen a good deal to-day.”
I pitied her, and I was meek in those days, but I marvel now at my long-suffering. She was unhappy, but tried to conceal this, making pitiful excuses which I saw through. Later she knew that I divined her troubles, yet we each kept up a pretense of not seeing things as they were. It was easier for her in more ways than one to have me there. I learned later that that was why my parents let me stay with her.