“My aunt wasn’t well,” said Nellie, “and I stayed at home to take care of her.” Such a light came into Sara Wharton’s sweet face, such tenderness and triumph and quick hope, that Nellie looked at her curiously.
“That was right, Nellie, dear,” she said; “I’m so glad you did it. I’m so glad,” she repeated, and went away, her eyes misty and her heart lifted up. She could not help going in to see Mrs. Sherman, making the excuse of bringing her some fruit because she was ill, but really to share her exultation.
“Sick?” said Mrs. Sherman, “why, no, ma’am, I’m not sick, no more than I always am with worry about that there Nellie. She didn’t come home from the club last night until after eleven, and I was scared to death for fear she’d gone off with them Caligan girls—they’re fast girls, that’s what they are; and she’s struck up a great friendship with ’em. My, she’ll worry me into my grave, Nellie will. But she said you’d kept her late to help you putting away the club books,—and of course that was all right.”
III
“You owe something to your family, my child,” Mrs. Wharton said one day; “you make us all very anxious and worried by overworking so; it’s your duty to take a little rest.”
“Mother, darling,” Sara began to protest, “I really can’t go away now; the Girls’ Club and”—
“You needn’t begin the list, my dear,” her mother interrupted—“I know them all. Dear, dear! Sara, when I was a girl, young women owed some duties to their parents, as well as to all the shiftless, worthless, improper people in the world.”
“I trust I’m not a Borrioboola-Gha person,” murmured Sara.
“Don’t be foolish, my child,” Mrs. Wharton said, “and use long words when your poor old mother don’t know what they mean”—
“You darling!” said Sara, and hugged her so tightly that Mrs. Wharton remonstrated.