"If you want me to," the girl went on, "I'll go now. Mrs. Marsh will take me in, but I'll have to explain why I ask it. I haven't told Alden, or his mother, and I don't want to. I won't bring shame upon those of my own blood if I can help it. But what I've had, I've earned, and I don't feel indebted to you for anything, not even a single slice of bread. That's all."
Grandmother staggered to her feet, breathing heavily. Her face was colourless, her lips ashen grey. "Rosemary Starr," she said, with long pauses between the words, "I'll never—speak to—you—again as—long as—I—live." Then she fell back into her chair, with her hand upon her heart.
"Very well, Grandmother," Rosemary returned, shrugging her shoulders. "You'll have to do as you like about that."
By supper-time the household was calm again—upon the surface. True to her word, Grandmother refused to communicate directly with Rosemary. She treated the girl as she might a piece of furniture—unworthy of attention except in times of actual use.
She conveyed her wishes through Matilda, as a sort of human telephone. "Matilda," she would say, "will you ask Rosemary to fill the tea-pot with hot water?" And, again: "Matilda, will you tell Rosemary to put out the milk pitcher and to lock the back door?" It was not necessary; however, for Matilda to tell Rosemary. The girl accepted the requests as though they had been given directly—with her head held high and the faintest shadow of an ironical smile upon her face.
Left in the Dark
After supper, while Rosemary was washing the dishes, Grandmother took the lamp. She was half-way to the door when Matilda inquired: "Where are you goin', Ma?"
"I'm goin' up to my room, to set and read a spell."
"But—but the lamp?"
"I need it to read by," Grandmother announced, with considerable asperity, "and you don't need to hunt around for no more lamps, neither. I've got 'em all put away."