Making Over Martha

by Julie M. Lippmann

"I don't believe it!" said Katherine passionately.

Martha smiled. "Certaintly you don't, at the present moment. But you will, in the course o' time. Why, the hardest knock a party'd land you, right between the eyes, you'd see stars."

Katherine turned quickly away, stooped to pick up her bag, and without another word, passed to the door.

"Say, Miss Katherine," called Martha, "I want to tell you somethin'. Now, listen! Dr. Ballard, he tol' me oncet——" she was talking to empty air.

Katherine had gone.

Martha followed at far as the doorstep, to look after the girlish figure marching so resolutely out into the cold gray of the early autumn morning. She stood watching it, until it passed out of sight, around the bend of the road that led to the village.

Then, with all her day's work still before her, Martha Slawson deliberately sat down to think.

"Between the two o' them, they've made a mess of it, for fair," she told herself. "But I'll give the ol' lady this credit, I do b'lieve she started in wantin' to do the right thing. The trouble with her is, she waited too long, an' in the meantime, Miss Katherine's been bottlin' in her steam, an' gettin' bitterer an' bitterer, till all it took was the first word from the little Madam, to bust her b'iler, an' send the pieces flyin'. Miss Katherine says they talked all night. I bet 'twas her done the talkin'. I can jus' see her takin' the bit between her teeth, an' lettin' rip, for all she was worth, same's Sam wipin' up the floor with Mrs. Peckett, which he'd never raised his hand to a soul in his life before, an' prob'ly never will again. Just for oncet the both of'm, him an' her, had their fling, more power to'm! In the meantime, the fat's in the fire. If I'd 'a' had the book-learnin' I'd oughta, an' not been the ignorant woman I am, I'd 'a' been able to speak the wise word to Miss Katherine, that would 'a' cooled her off, an' ca'med her down, till she'd have her reason back, an' could see the right an' wrong of it for herself. But I haven't, an' she ain't, an' while I'm sittin' here thinkin' about it, she's makin' tracks for Boston, an' Dr. Ballard. Bein' a man, he'll welcome her with open arms. Bein' a girl, she'll forget all about her good intentions to throw'm down, the minute she claps eyes on'm. An' then, when it's all over, an' Time has fanned the first flush off'n 'm, he'll get to thinkin' how she ain't the woman he thought her, because she left her gran'ma in the lurch, which he tol' me with his own lips he'd never ask her do it. In fac', he wouldn't respec' her if she did do it, an' the poor ol' lady so sick, 'n' old, 'n' lonesome. An', with one like Dr. Ballard, a girl'd want to think twice before she'd risk lowerin' herself, to do what he couldn't respec'. No, Dr. Ballard mustn't know Miss Katherine's left her gran'ma alone. He mustn't know it, even if she does it! But how is he goin' not to know it, I should like to know?"

For a few moments Martha painfully pondered the problem, without any sign of untangling its knotted thread. Then suddenly she rose and, going to the foot of the stairway, called up to Sam:

"Say, Sam—come here a minute, will you? I wisht you'd wake up Cora, an' tell her get busy fixin' the breakfast. An' when you come down, set Sammy feedin' the hens, an' turnin' the cow out. I ain't able to do my chores, because I got suddently called away. I prob'ly won't be back till dinnertime, or maybe night. Don't wait for me, an' don't be uneasy. I'll tell you about it later."