"I'm sorry you had such disappointment," she said. "But doncher care, Ma. Sometime us two'll go down to New York together, an' I'll give you the time o' your life."
For a moment Ma made no response. Then her quavering voice shook out the words, as if they had been stray atoms, falling from a sieve: "It ain't the disappointment I'm after mindin' so much," she lamented. "I could thole that, itself—but—(perhaps it's a silly old woman I am)! but the notion it's got into me head that—that—maybe the lot o' them—didn't want me!"
Martha extinguished the light with a jerk. "Oh, go to sleep, Ma, an' quit your foolishness. I'll say to you what I say to the childern. If you cry about nothin', look out lest the Lord'll be givin' you somethin' to cry for."
"Then you don't think——?"
"Oh, go to sleep, Ma," repeated Martha, as if the question were not debatable.
The sun was barely up when the children began to stir.
"Say, Sabina," Cora whispered, "I bet you don't know what's in Ma's room."
A quick sortie, and Sabina did know. Then Sammy knew, and Francie knew.
"Come, come!" cried Martha, appearing on the threshold, "get yourselves dressed, the whole of you. Don't use up all your joy at the first go-off. Leave some to spread over the rest of the time. Ma's goin' to stop, you know. Besides—we can't keep Miss Claire waitin'."
"In my da'," observed Ma thoughtfully, "it wouldn't 'a' been thought well of, for a lady like that to be la'nchin' out, just before——"