Mrs. Jones's patience was tried. For these two busy days she and her "Bill" had stayed at No. 77, helping where help was needed, and keeping a careful eye to the "professional" packing which they more than half distrusted. The frail country-woman had just gone through the same sort of business, almost single-handed, and she felt that her new friend failed to realize the blessings of her lot and that a reproof was in order.
"Well, Mis' Chester, you may be. I can't tell. I never had chick nor child to make me sad or glad, ary one. But if I'd adopted one, right out of the streets as you did, an' she'd seen fit to run away an' turn her back on a good home, after enjoyin' it so long, an' I'd still got my man left, an' folks had been that generous to me, payin' for everything—Laws! I sh'd think I had some mercies left. Some."
Mother Martha rose. She was not offended, but she was deeply hurt and she was glad the time had come to say good-bye. With a weary smile she held out her hand, saying:
"Well, that's right, too, but you don't understand. Nobody can who hasn't lived with Dorothy. There was never a child like her. Never. I'll be going. I said good-bye to everybody—everything, this side the city, and I've fixed it to sleep at a boarding house right across the street from the Hospital. We've got to make an early start and I'll be close on hand. If she—O my darling!—Good-bye. I—I hope you'll be as happy here as I was before all this trouble came upon me. No. I don't want company. I want to be alone. It's the only way I can bear it and—good-bye, old home! Good-bye—good-bye!"
The door opened and the mistress of the prettiest house on Brown Street vanished into the darkness of a somber, sultry night; and what her feelings were only those who have thus parted with a beloved home can understand; and what the hours of sleeplessness which followed only she herself knew.
The morning found her sunshiny and bright, as if her whole heart were in this sudden flitting, and waiting in the carriage at the hospital door, while an orderly and Mr. Lathrop, superintended by a nurse and doctor, helped John Chester to make his first short journey upon crutches.
The excitement of the event had sent a flush to his cheeks and a brightness to his eyes which made him look so like his old self that his wife rejoiced that, after all, there had been no delay in their removal. Yet, once in the carriage, with his useless legs stretched out before him, he suddenly demanded:
"Why, where's my girl? Where's Dorothy C.?"
He looked toward his wife, but it was Mr. Lathrop who answered:
"Oh! she's coming later. We—we couldn't bother with a child, this trip."