“No, daughter, not a bit—not a bit; but your aunt didn't, either. She didn't suffer.”
“Don't you think we ought to send for the doctor, mother?”
“Doctor? No—how ridiculous! Even if it is a drop on the brain, he couldn't do me a bit of good. The brain is inside the—the—what do you call it? See there, my mind isn't what it was. I can't think of as common a thing as a—you know what I mean, Cynthia.”
“You mean skull, mother,” the girl said, anxiously.
“Yes, I mean that. Your aunt's memory was bad, too. She suddenly forgot her own name, and came in from the strawberry-patch one day scared out of her senses. The next thing was her hand getting numb. My thumb feels queer; I believe you could stick a needle through it and I wouldn't feel it. But don't you tell your pa, Cynthia. Wait, anyway, till to-morrow, and see how I feel then. It may pass away, and then—then, again, it may be the first stroke. They say people about my age usually have three, and the last one ends it. I hope I'll go naturally—the way Martha went was horrible; and yet when I think of all my trouble I—”
“Hush, mother, don't!” Cynthia cried. They had now reached the porch. Porter had retired, and so they passed on unnoticed to Mrs. Porter's room.
Cynthia helped her mother undress and get into the bed, and then she went to her own room and sat down, irresolutely, at her table. She leaned her head on her crossed arms and remained quite still. She was very tired in brain and body, and presently dropped to sleep. She slept for about two hours. Suddenly she waked with a start. The clock in the sitting-room was striking ten. Nelson would be at the grape-arbor soon, she told herself with a shudder. Perhaps he was already there, and too cautious to whistle as on former meetings. She stood up, tiptoed to the closet, and opened the door. She uncovered the hidden valise and lifted it out into the light. Then a recollection of her mother's strange condition struck her like a blow in the face, and, standing in the centre of the room, she sighed.
Just then she heard the tread of bare feet in the hall, and a low-mumbled monologue. Her heart stood still, for she recognized her mother's voice. Going softly to the door, she peered out, and there, in a thin, white dress, stood Mrs. Porter, Nathan's double-barrelled shot-gun clutched in her hand, her long hair hanging loose on her back. The old woman's face was averted, and she seemed unaware of her daughter's presence.
“Lord, my God, pardon me for this last act,” she was praying. “It may be a sin in Thy sight for a tortured person to seek escape from trouble by this course, but I can't stand it any longer.”
“Mother, what is this?” Cynthia darted out into the hall and snatched the gun from her mother's hands.