She had been darning her carpet again. We
could see the careful stitches and the frayed edges her art couldn't quite
conceal. "She has polished her furniture, too! See how it shines, Meta. She
tried to make it look its best." Rose's voice was mournful, so I tried to
speak up cheerfully.
"To be sure she did, and succeeded!" Then we turned, and both of us choked
back a sob at what we saw. She had taken our discarded dressing-table
drapery, cut out the best portions, ruffled it daintily, pressed it neatly,
and put it on her own bureau. Our worn-out sash curtains, nicely laundered,
veiled her book-rack.
"Meta, our mother--our precious jewel of a mother! We've taken everything
for ourselves and left her the rags!"
Rose had her head on my shoulder, and by that time I was crying as hard as
she was.
"No wonder Jack was dissatisfied!" I sobbed. "Rose, why didn't he tell us?"
"O Meta, why did we need telling? That's what breaks my heart. Even our
rickety chair fixed up and set back in the shadow! O, I can't stand it!"
"We've got to!" I stiffened up grimly. "We've got to stand it, and it
serves us right.
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