“Don’t you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; and that I have not improved. But I am not sure that I understand myself.”
“What is wrong with you, Graeme.”
“I cannot tell you, Will. I don’t know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. But there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it.”
“If I knew what is wrong I might try,” said Will, gravely.
“Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in the world, when I shall no longer have you to care for?”
“If you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty.”
“I know it, Will. But useless as my way of life is, I cannot change it. Next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and Fanny in hers, I have done nothing worth naming as work.”
“That same nursing was not a little. And do you call the housekeeping nothing? It is all very well, Fanny’s jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. If last year has nothing to show for work, I think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. It is not that you are getting weary of the ‘woman’s work, that is never done,’ is it, dear?”
“No, Will. I hope not. I think not. But this last year has been very different from all former years. I used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. I cannot explain it. You would laugh at the trifles that make the difference.”
“I see one difference,” said Will. “You have the trouble, and Fanny has the credit.”