Mrs. Carruth sat in her library wrinkling her usually serene brow over a business letter this chilly Monday morning, and hurrying to get it completed before the arrival of the letter carrier who always took any letters to be mailed. Her face wore a perplexed expression, and her eyes had tired lines about them, for the past year had been harder for her than anyone suspected. Her income, at best, was much too limited to conduct her home as it had always been conducted, and the general expenses of living in Riveredge were steadily increasing. True, Mammy was frugality itself in the matter of providing, and Mrs. Carruth often marveled at the small amounts of her weekly bills. But the demands in other directions were heavy, and the expenses of the place itself were large. More than once had she questioned the wisdom of striving to keep the home, believing that the tax upon her resources, and her anxiety, would be less if she gave it up and removed to town where she could live for far less than in Riveredge. Then arose the memory of the building of the home, the hopes, the plans, and the joys so inseparable from it, the children’s well-being and their love for the house their father had built; their education, and the environment of a home in such a town as Riveredge.
Now, however, new difficulties were confronting her, for some of her investments were not making the returns she had expected and her income was seriously affected. In spite of the utmost frugality and care the outlook was not encouraging, and just now she had to meet the demand of the fire insurance upon the home and its contents, and just how to do so was the question which was causing her brows to wrinkle. She had let the matter stand until the last moment, but dared to do so no longer for upon that point Mr. Carruth had always been most emphatic; the insurance upon his property must never lapse. He had always carried one, and since his death his wife had been careful to continue it. But now how to meet the sum, and meet it at once, was the problem.
She had completed her letter when Mammy came to the door.
“Is yo’ here, Miss Jinny? Is yo’ busy? I wants to ax you sumpin’,” she said as she gave a quick glance at Mrs. Carruth from her keen eyes.
“Come in, Mammy. What is it?”
The voice had a tired, anxious note in it which Mammy was quick to catch.
“Wha’ de matter, honey? Wha’s plaguin’ you dis mawnin’?” she asked as she hurried across the room to rest her hand on her mistress’ shoulder.
Like a weary child Mrs. Carruth let her head fall upon Mammy’s bosom—a resting place that as long as she could remember had never failed her—as she said:
“Mammy, your baby is very weary, and sorely disheartened this morning, and very, very lonely.”
The words ended in a sob.