What if she should say something like that? What a commotion she could make! It was not that she had the least idea of saying it; it was simply that she felt, "What if I should?"—Satan's earliest and most specious form, oftentimes, of presenting a temptation. Also, there was that unaccountable tendency to a burst of tears; she felt as though she could hardly keep them back, even with Dorothy's gray eyes looking keenly at her. Just a little minute served for all these states of feeling to surge by; then Dorothy broke the silence, roused out of her timidity by a struggling sense of injustice.
"You mustn't mind what mother says; she speaks out sometimes sharp. Anybody who didn't know her would think she was angry, but she isn't; it is just her way. She isn't used to company either, and it kind of flurries her; but she will be real glad to have had Mr. Butler here after it is all over."
Such a sudden rush of feeling as came to Louise, borne on the current of these words—words which she knew cost Dorothy an effort, for she had been with her long enough, and watched her closely enough, to realize what a painful hold timidity had gotten on her. But these eager, swiftly-spoken words, so unlike her usual hesitation, evinced a kindly tenderness of feeling for Louise herself that the lonely young wife reached after and treasured gratefully. The tears rolled down her cheeks, it is true—they had gotten too near the surface to control, and were determined for once to have their way; but she looked through them with a smile at Dorothy, nay, she set down her dust-pan suddenly and dropped her broom, and went over to the astonished girl and kissed her heartily.
"Thank you," she said brightly, "you good sister Dorrie; you have helped me ever so much. Of course mother doesn't mean to scold me; and if she did, mothers are privileged, and should be loved so much that little scoldings can be taken gratefully, especially when they are deserved, as mine is. I ought to have asked her whether it would be convenient to have company. But never mind; we'll make the best of it, and have a good time all round. And, Dorothy, let us be real true sisters, and help each other, and lore each other. I miss my sister Estelle."
It was the last word she dared trust herself to speak; those treacherous tears desired again to choke her. She turned abruptly from Dorothy and ran upstairs, leaving the dust-pan a central ornament of the kitchen floor. Hidden in the privacy of her own room, the door locked on the world below, Louise sat down in the little home-rocker and did what would have thoroughly alarmed her own mother because of its unusualness—buried her head in her hands and let the tears have their way.
She had managed to control herself before Dorothy, to smile brightly on her, and to feel a thrill of joy over the thought that she had touched that young person's heart. But all this did not keep her from being thoroughly roused and indignant toward her mother-in-law. What right had she to treat her as though she were an interloper? Was not she the wife of the eldest son, who toiled early and late, bearing burdens at least equal to, if not greater than, his father? "What that woman needs," said a strong, decided voice in her ear, "is to realize that there are other people in this world beside herself. She has been a tyrant all her life. She manages everybody; she thinks she can manage you. It is for her good as well as your own that you undeceive her. You owe it to your self-respect to go directly down to that outer kitchen, where she is banging the kettles around, and say to her that you must have an understanding. Are you one of the family, with rights, as a married daughter, to invite and receive guests as suits your pleasure, or are you a boarder simply?—in which case you are entirely willing to pay for the trouble which your guests may make."
Every nerve in Louise's body seemed to be throbbing with the desire to help her carry out this advice. It was not merely the sting of the morning, but an accumulation of stings which she felt had been gathering ever since she came into the house. But who was the bold adviser? It startled this young woman not a little to realize that her heart was wonderfully in accord with his suggestions. As usual, there was war between him and another unseen force. Said that other,—
"It is a trying position, to be sure. You have many little things to bear, and it is quite probable, your life having been so shielded heretofore, that they seem to you great trials. But, you will remember, I never promised you should not be tried; I only pledged myself that your strength should be equal to your day. And, really, there has no temptation taken you but such as is common to men. And I am faithful: I will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able."
Surely she knew this voice, and recognized this message sent to her so long ago, and proved true to her experience so many times.
"But," said that other one, "you really are not called upon to endure insults. It is a perfectly absurd position. If you had gone out as a home missionary, or were among uncouth people who had had no advantages, and to whom you were not in any sense related, it would do to talk of bearing trials; but in this case what right have your husband's family to put trials of this sort upon you? You have a perfect right to please yourself, and they ought to know it."