A smile flickered upon Mrs. Grafton’s pale face, and died in another sigh. Barbara rose and shut the dining-room door.
“Now I”—she resumed—“I will guarantee to keep the lower floor looking fresh and clean,—not doing the sweeping, of course; and I will take care of my own room and Jack’s also. That will probably occupy me until half-past nine, after which I must spend my time until twelve in writing every minute, undisturbed. In this way, you see, we shall each have our own individual work,—David and the Kid being allowed to play,—and your burden will be considerably lessened. And all through a little application of system.”
“System!” echoed her mother, mechanically allowing Charles to slip from her lap.
“Yes,” said Barbara. “That leaves your room and David’s and the ordering for you.”
“My room, and David’s, and the ordering,” repeated Mrs. Grafton.
“Why, yes,” Barbara responded, looking curiously at her mother. “What is the matter, dear? You look so queer and white. Aren’t you well?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Grafton. “Here is Susan coming to see you. Keep her out on the porch, Barbara, there is so much to do in the house.”
Left alone, Mrs. Grafton’s eyes filled, and her lips began to twitch nervously. “So much to do!” she repeated. She put her handkerchief up to her shaking lips. “What am I crying for?” she asked herself sternly. “I never used to be so foolish.” But her eyes kept filling and her lips twitching. She had a feeling that she was allowing herself to be weak. Then a sense of hopelessness in a domestic universe seemed to rise up and overwhelm her, and she wept again.
Suddenly she rose and hurried from the room, as she caught the sound of Jack’s boots on the stairs.