“And thee is not afraid to put that maid of airs and graces to rule in thy stead?”
“Not one whit afraid.”
“Humph! I wash my hands of the responsibility!” said Ruth, half-laughingly, half-seriously, and tossing those same shapely hands upward in a deprecating fashion.
“Do that really, my daughter; ‘cease carrying coals to Newcastle,’ and thee will find life a better thing. Thee is a good ‘Martha,’ but thee remembers about ‘Mary?’”
“Thee is the ‘Mary’ of this household, sweet mother. Thee has always had ‘the better part.’ I will try to learn of thee.” As she said this, the daughter stooped and kissed her mother’s cheek; then she went swiftly out of the room, intent upon setting things in readiness for her contemplated absence.
Ruth Kinsolving found always her best antidote for anxiety in activity; and so promptly did she settle all the details of the household management during Paula’s and Rosetta’s reign, that she was ready on the next morning to start with her mother for that vacation of rest they both needed.
The group of young folks who watched their carriage out of sight felt for a few moments a sense of desolation which even Paula’s pride in authority, or Content’s serenity, could not banish.
“Oh, dear! I feel—I feel so lumpy, and kind of sick inside,” said little Fritz, dropping his head on Christina’s shoulder; “I don’t see what makes folks go away all the time.”
“Let’s all go into Melville’s room and be miserable together,” said Content, trying to smile, yet finding the tears interfering; “I think I heard Octave say that Melville had had a letter from your Uncle Fritz.”
To the little Pickels, that was a name “to conjure by”; and with a quick change of sentiment, they rushed pell-mell into “the lion’s den.”