Of no account

by Ruth Lamb

Poor Adam was brimful of anxiety to speak on the subject nearest to his heart, but dreadfully afraid that at the first mention of it, Margaret might "fly up," as she had so often done before. He listened very patiently to all that she had to tell, and answered her many questions, which, indeed, seemed almost endless.

Margaret was specially full of Ann's disappointment on hearing the will read, and of the reasonableness of sisters Eliza and Martha.

"I wish you could ha' seen Ann," she said. "She was that vexed she looked as if she could have eaten me with a grain o' salt. But she always was that mean and having, there was no doing with her. She thought when she got poor mother beside her, she would persuade her into leaving her all she had. Ann always thought her share ought to be elevenpence ha'penny out of every shilling. But mother saw through her, and served her out at last."

Margaret's exultant tone jarred on Adam's ear. The thought of that scene after the funeral was to him almost too painful to dwell upon, and he said, "Well, Margaret, I'm glad for some things I wasn't there with you. I should ha' liked to hear your mother's kind words about me and to you, and it's a great comfort to know she said them. But I shouldn't have enjoyed any quarrelling over what had been hers that was but just gone. As it is, I feel sorry about it, for I hate quarrelling among relations."

"So do I," replied Margaret briskly; "but I hate being put upon, too, and I know, if Ann could have had her way, nothing belonging to mother would have become ours. I did keep in on the funeral day, though it was hard work. But I thought about poor mother, and that helped me, for it isn't nice for people's mouths to be filled with a tale of two sisters quarrelling over anybody's things directly they've done with them. Mr. Collinge took my part, and gave it Ann pretty plain, because he knew more than I did. And then you know, Adam, there was another thing that helped me to keep my temper. I'd got a deal the best o' the bargain."

What could Adam say that would not be out of harmony with his wife's train of thought? Indeed, before he had time to think of an answer, she was off again, telling him of all the lesser items that made up her legacy.

"There's a lot of clothes that will serve me for years and years, with a bit of altering, for mother was taller and stouter than I am. She kept to black after father died, and always bought it good; so some of her worst things will make up nicely for the children. Fancy, Adam, there's two nice dark-coloured silk gowns, that have been laid by, oh such years, and haven't a spot on them. Then there's a black one, quite a beauty. You remember mother went out nursing sometimes in very good houses, and had a many presents. I believe there are things to last a lifetime, and I shan't need to be frightened of wearing my one decent gown and shawl, like I used to be, thinking I should never be able to get another."

Thus Margaret ran on, and how could Adam help sympathizing with her delight in her new possessions? She could add, and he knew with truth, "I never expected or looked for them, Adam, but I'm glad mother has done the right thing by me."

Had he not grieved for years that his scanty means prevented his wife and children from turning out as nicely dressed as their neighbours?

Had he not cast many a wistful glance into the shop windows, and wished he could buy a pretty bonnet or a length of stuff so temptingly displayed there, for the use of his Margaret?