Mrs. Kelsey stood before the glass, a deep flush on her cheeks and tears rolling down her face. Two trembling hands struggled with the lace at her throat until the sharp point of a pin found her thumb and left a tiny crimson stain on the spotlessness of the collar. It was then that Mrs. Kelsey covered her face with her hands and sank into the low chair by the bed.
“Why, mother!” cried Alma again, hurrying across the room and dropping on her knees at her mother’s side.
“I can’t, Alma, I can’t!” moaned the woman. “I’ve tried an’ tried; but I’ve got ter give up, I’ve got ter give up.”
“Can’t what, dearie?--give up what?” demanded Alma.
Mrs. Kelsey shook her head. Then she dropped her hands and looked fearfully into her daughter’s face.
“An’ yer father, too, Alma--he’s tried, an’ he can’t,” she choked.
“Tried what? What do you mean?”
With her eyes on Alma’s troubled, amazed face, Mrs. Kelsey made one last effort to gain her lost position. She raised her shaking hands to her throat and fumbled for the pin and the collar.
“There, there, dear, don’t fret,” she stammered. “I didn’t think what I was sayin’. It ain’t nothin’--I mean, it aren’t nothin’--it am not--oh-h!” she sobbed; “there, ye see, Alma, I can’t, I can’t. It ain’t no more use ter try!” Down went the gray head on Alma’s strong young shoulder.
“There, there, dear, cry away,” comforted Alma, with loving pats. “It will do you good; then we’ll hear what this is all about, from the very beginning.”