"There's another helper coming," murmured Angelina.
"Oh, yes, a scrub-woman, who couldn't do the least little thing to help pack the trunks. But hurry with the dishes, Angelina, for you can be a lot of use."
Though she spoke briskly, Martine felt a little depressed—for Martine.
As she lifted trunk-trays, and folded skirts, and packed things in little boxes, she could not help thinking how much pleasanter it would be to spend the morning in Sander's Theatre, listening to witty speeches, or later walking about the college grounds, with Elinor and Kate and half a dozen attendant undergraduates.
"If only mother hadn't been sick—"
Then she suppressed the thought, ashamed of her own selfishness.
At twelve o'clock she glanced around the room with undisguised satisfaction.
"There, Angelina, we can easily finish to-morrow. Only two trunks and one box left, and some little odds and ends to do at the last moment. Oh, dear, I must get away quickly—the rooms look so bare."
The fatigue that Martine had hardly before admitted to herself, almost overcame her while she was dressing. Bending, climbing, wielding a hammer, undoubtedly strengthen the muscles in the long run. Yet the process of muscle-building is often accompanied by sensations that an amateur athlete might pardonably call "weariness."
Consequently, Martine must not be blamed if for a moment her spirit weakened as she looked at the white gown that Angelina had spread out for her on the divan.