Oh, how I wished mother were there!
"Susan," I said, "have you any relatives?"
"No, I haven't," she answered sharply. "And if I had they needn't
come prowling around me. I don't want no relations about my body."
"Would you like to see Dr. Cabot?"
"What should I want of Dr. Cabot? Don't tease, child."
Considering the deference with which she had heretofore treated me,
this was quite a new order of things.
I sat down and tried to pray for her, silently, in my heart. Who was
to go with her on that long journey, and where was it to end?
The woman who had been caring for her now went away, and it was
growing dark. I sat still listening to my own heart, which beat till
it half choked me.
"What were you and the doctor whispering about?" she suddenly burst
out.
"He asked me, for one thing, if you had any friends that could be
sent for."
"I've been my own best friend," she returned. "Who'd have raked and
scraped and hoarded and counted for Susan Green if I hadn't ha' done
it? I ve got enough to make me comfortable as long as I live, and
when I lie on my dying bed."
"But you can't carry it with you," I said. This highly original
remark was all I had courage to utter.
"I wish I could," she cried. "I suppose you think I talk awful. They
say you are getting most to be as much of a saint as your ma. It's
born in some, and in some it ain't.
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