By this time Martha was lying on the bed.
“If you will pass me my work, Helen, I think I can sew while I am lying down.”
“No, Martha,” said Helen, shaking her head; “I shall not allow it. You are wholly unfit for work. You must have a good long rest.”
“But, Helen——”
“I know what you would say,—that you can’t afford to lie still. Just as if you had no friends, you unreasonable child. For a week to come, you must not touch your needle. During that time I will bring in your meals to you.”
“But, Helen——”
“Now don’t be perverse, Martha. Papa says I am a tyrant, and I mean to be in this case. To make sure that you don’t touch your work, I shall carry it away with me, and finish it myself.”
“But, Helen, you have your father to care for. I cannot consent to become a burden upon you.”
“Are you aware, Martha, how rich I am? For some weeks past, I have spent scarcely more than half my income. You see, therefore, that I am abundantly able to do what little I propose. But I sha’n’t allow you to talk any more. Try to go to sleep, and I will come in pretty soon. Mind I find you better.”
Helen left the room with the work in her hand. Martha ceased her opposition. She felt that the time had come when labor was no longer possible. She must have rest. How grateful the thought that, for a week, she should be free from the drudgery of the needle,—that her busy fingers might be folded in idleness, without the troubled thought that her bread depended upon her exertions. She lay back, and a sense of delicious rest came to her. She did not try to look beyond the week of rest. That seemed a long and blissful eternity. She was almost too weary to think. The sharp pain became less poignant, and at last she fell asleep. She slept for three hours, and, when she woke, it was to see the kind face of Helen bending over her.