Perhaps
it was this thing I saw in Atkins' house that has upset me so, and I
suppose that my life has always been too easy, and that I have not been
prepared to meet some of the grim horrors it can reveal to one.
I could not think of leaving without saying good-by to Mrs. Barnett. My
hand shook as I pushed a hatpin through my cap. Then I told Daddy where I
was going and ran out into the darkness.
When I reached the poor little house they insist on calling the rectory
the dear woman opened her arms to greet me, and I saw that her beautiful
eyes were filled with tears.
"What is the matter, dear?" I asked.
"I was a coward to-day," she cried. "Such an awful coward! I had no
business to leave when Dr. Grant told me to. I should have stayed and
helped. But when he spoke of diphtheria I couldn't help it and thought of
my little chaps. I have already seen that dreadful thing come and sweep
little lives away, just in a day or two. It took the one we buried on the
other side of the cove, and we saw it suffocating, helpless to aid. And
that's why I ran out, terror-stricken. But I hear that you held the baby
for him. You don't know what it is to have babies of your own, and were
not afraid. It is dreadful, you know, that fear that comes in a mother's
heart!"
She looked quite weak when she sat down, in a poor, worn, upholstered
chair that was among the things they brought from England, and I sat on
the arm of it, beside her.
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