With a brief glance as she opened the door, she saw Spencer with a gruff "Aw, come along!" heading for the woodshed.
Letty twisted and squirmed in her arms. "Dig!" she declared.
"You can dig in your sand pile." Catherine set her down. "Where is your red pail? You find that, while I find my pen."
She couldn't go back to town before school opened. Her pen made tiny involved triangles at the edge of the blotter. Charles wouldn't like it if she brought the children down so early. Still, that would give her a few days to set the house in order, to find a woman to take her place. What a queer thought! Henrietta had one in mind, she had said, a sort of practical nurse and housekeeper. There were the children's clothes to see to. When could she do that? She wouldn't have time for sewing. She dropped her head down on the table, her hands clasped under her forehead. I can't do it, she thought. Too many things. Things! That's it. Clothes, and laundry, and dirt in the corners. One hand groped out for the letter from Dr. Roberts, and she lifted her head. Her mouth set in a hard, thin line; the smears under her gray eyes made them larger, weary with a kind of desperation.
"I remember so well your admirable work," he had written. "I can think of no one with whom I should prefer to entrust this new piece of work."
If I don't do it now, I never will, she thought. Never. Perhaps I haven't the courage, or the endurance.
"Mis' Hammond!" came Amelia's nasal call. "D'you want a fish? Earle's here and wants to know."
"Yes." Catherine drew her paper near.
"Huh? D'you want one?"