“Why, I thought,” she began slowly, “I’d stay here with you and Katherine a while.”
Mrs. Whitmore set down her empty cup and turned a troubled face toward the sound of her daughter’s voice.
“Meg, dear,” she remonstrated, “is it that fancy-work?”
“Well, isn’t fancy-work all right?” The girl’s voice shook a little.
Mrs. Whitmore stirred uneasily.
“No, it--it isn’t--in this case,” she protested. “Meg, Kathie, I don’t like it. You are young; you should go out more--both of you. I understand, of course; it’s your unselfishness. You stay with me lest I get lonely; and you play at painting and fancy-work for an excuse. Now, dearies, there must be a change. You must go out. You must take your place in society. I will not have you waste your young lives.”
“Mother!” Margaret was on her feet, and Katherine had dropped her work. “Mother!” they cried again.
“I--I shan’t even listen,” faltered Margaret. “I shall go and leave you right away,” she finished tremulously, picking up the tray and hurrying from the room.
It was hours later, after the little woman had trailed once more along the Axminster path to the bed in the room beyond and had dropped asleep, that Margaret Whitmore faced her sister with despairing eyes.
“Katherine, what shall we do? This thing is killing me!”