When we got back to the parlor I was thankful
to rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what little he
had to tell about his mother's last hours.
"You must love me more than ever, now," he said, "for I have lost my
best friend."
"Yes," I said, "I will." As if that were possible! All the time we
were talking I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not
seem to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, or her father,
or both together, had changed the positions of article of furniture
in the room making it look a fright.
Chapter 11
XI.
MARCH 10.
THINGS are even worse than I expected. Ernest evidently looked at me
with his father's eyes (and this father has got the jaundice, or
something), and certainly is cooler towards me than he was before he
went home. Martha still declines eating more than enough to keep body
and soul together, and sits at the table with the air of a martyr.
Her father lives on crackers and stewed prunes, and when he has eaten
them, fixes his melancholy eyes on me, watching every mouthful with
an air of plaintive regret that I will consume so much unwholesome
food.
Then Ernest positively spends less time with me than ever, and sits
in his office reading and writing nearly every evening.
Yesterday I came home from an exhilarating walk, and a charming call
at Aunty's, and at the dinner-table gave a lively account of some of
the children's exploits.
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