“Don’t flick your duster so, child; just pass it gently along, sort of wrapping the dust into it as you go. What you are doing now is to set all them atoms in active circulation for a few minutes, then back they settles again thicker than ever,” expostulated Mrs. Nichols, who was a notable housewife, and hated to see work done in an improper fashion.
“That is what my mother always says, but I’m afraid that I am not a domestic genius; my ambitions don’t lie that way,” laughed Gertrude.
“It is of little use having ambitions, for you’ll never realize them if you don’t set out to do everything first class as you go along,” retorted Mrs. Nichols, with a wag of her head.
Gertrude was beginning a laughing reply when a call clicked out from her instrument, and she dropped her duster to take down the message which was arriving.
Mrs. Nichols waited until this was done, filling in the pause with an active raid on the next shelf. As she stood with her back to Gertrude, she did not know that anything was wrong, until she was startled by a faint moaning cry, and turned quickly to find the girl’s face had turned ghastly white.
“Law, child, whatever is the matter? Has bad news come over the wire? Sure it ain’t another big fire in the city?” cried the good woman, in alarm.
Her husband had lost his life in the great conflagration which had swept over the city some years previously, and since then her main idea of trouble had been some similar disaster.
“No, no, it is a message from home; there is great trouble, and I must go. Oh, what a mercy it is that my deputy is coming to-day, because now I can get away this evening!” Gertrude said, with panting breath.
“What sort of trouble?” demanded the widow.
“My eldest brother Percy, the one next to me, is not expected to live; Arthur is very ill too. My poor mother must be nearly distracted, for she just dotes on those two.”