"Can I have the little guest room, mammie?" Martha had asked. "I want her to have the big one."
And presently there she was, just as if nothing had happened, coming out of the house and down the path towards her mother and Miss Curtis, under the willow tree, bareheaded and carrying the very old colander and the very old knife she had used for cutting asparagus ever since, as a little girl, she had been allowed that privilege.
"You've never eaten asparagus unless you've cut it," she was explaining to her guest. "Ten minutes from the garden to the kettle, that's when it's good, really."
She was better, Emily said to herself. She was subdued; she was thoughtful of her guest. She had ceased, for the moment, to rail. She was showing Miss Curtis all the garden. The asparagus had already been cut once that day, for Bob was fond of it. But there was enough just for two. And this warm rain would bring more on by to-morrow. And she took what she had found into the house, and returned to show her wild-flower bed.
"Look what a little cultivation does for violets here. They aren't really modest, under mossy stones. They're only starved. They get swanky enough when you give them a place to grow," she said. "And look at the Dutchman's breeches! And here's my old jack-in-the-pulpit. And look at the peonies! Gee, mammie! Mrs. Benton will be budding all over the county before long." She made Miss Curtis admire her willow tree, and the clear water gurgling along beneath it.
"You're a glutton for education, Martha," Miss Curtis sighed, "to be living with me in the city when you might be out here at home!" And she went in to get ready for supper.
Left alone for a moment with her mother, Martha stood sniffling.
"I had forgotten it smelled so good, so clean!" she said, wistfully. "I simply hate Chicago. It's just sickening when spring comes. Everybody goes out of town for week-ends. All the teachers go down to the dunes, and bring nice little mossy things back with them, mammie. That's why I came out here. They wanted Miss Curtis to go with them; and she wanted to, too. But she can't afford it; it costs two or three dollars, she says. It would cost me ten!—to go away for a week-end. She's such a good old dear, isn't she, mammie? I tried to get her to go some place with me for the week-end. But she wouldn't hear of me paying the bills. I did want her to get away. And then she said I could come down and visit her school; and I did. My God! mammie! If you could see that room of hers on a spring afternoon. Close is no word for it. Smelling of all the dirty little wops that have never been bathed in their lives. All wiggling and squirming and wanting to get out of doors, of course. I tell you I could hardly stand it for an hour. And to see her sticking shut up in there, day after day, for six years! It made me so mad! I just made up my mind to bring her out here for the week-ends. That wouldn't cost her even the price of a bed. I went and bought a car, and she hadn't an excuse left. I'm going to put her to bed after supper. She's ready to collapse. She had a chill the other evening, she was so done up. We had to get the doctor. If you'd seen that room, you'd wonder why she isn't dead. Isn't she a sort of nice old thing, mammie?"
"It is for this woman's sake she has come home," Emily was trying not to think. "She never realizes I'm lonely. I'm only her mother, after all!"
"I'm sure she needs a change, Martha. Are you still getting her suppers?"