Nathalie, who had been off on a Pioneer demonstration most of the day, showed her dismay as she exclaimed, “Oh, where is Ophelia?”
Mrs. Page’s worry lines deepened as she answered, “Oh, she is ill. She has been complaining for some days, and when she begged to be allowed to go home this morning I did not have the heart to refuse her. Poor thing! she looked the embodiment of woe!”
“But isn’t she coming back?” inquired alarmed Nathalie.
“Not for several days,” was the answer, as Mrs. Page leaned wearily back in her chair.
“But can’t we get some one to help us?” demanded her daughter insistently.
“Dorothy went to the colored settlement, but could not get any one. Colored people don’t like to work in warm weather, and I don’t blame them,” her mother added in an undertone, “for standing over a fire in this heat is terrible.”
“Oh, what shall we do?” thought Nathalie ruefully, as she saw a pile of unwashed dishes confronting her. But a cheery “Hello?” caused her to look up to see her friend, with dust-brush in hand, cleaning the window shutters of the neighboring house. With gripping force she suddenly realized how useful Helen was, and the numerous things she managed to do to help her mother, notwithstanding the many hours she was compelled to spend at the stenography school.
Nathalie twisted about in the hammock; somehow it did not seem as comfortable as it did before her mother had come. Her sky visions had departed, and in their place had come the thought that she ought to help her mother. Oh, but dish-washing was degrading, such greasy work. She glanced down at her slim, white hands as if they would aid her in this argument with self.
“Oh, why do people have to do the very things they hate?” she questioned rebelliously as she arose from her comfortable position and with a long-drawn sigh started to enter the house.
“You have dropped your book!” exclaimed her mother as she stooped and picked up the Pioneer manual that had fallen from Nathalie’s lap and handed it to her.