And sometimes I was her maid of all work.
It is early morn, and my mother has come noiselessly into my room. I know it is she, though my eyes are shut, and I am only half awake. Perhaps I was dreaming of her, for I accept her presence without surprise, as if in the awakening I had but seen her go out at one door to come in at another. But she is speaking to herself.
I’m sweer to waken him -I doubt he was working late -oh, that weary writing -no, I maunna waken him.’
I start up. She is wringing her hands. What is wrong?’ I cry, but I know before she answers. My sister is down with one of the headaches against which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who bears physical pain as if it were a comrade, is most woebegone when her daughter is the sufferer. And she winna let me go down the stair to make a cup of tea for her,’ she groans.
I will soon make the tea, mother.’
Will you?’ she says eagerly. It is what she has come to me for, but It is a pity to rouse you,’ she says.
And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light the fires and wash the dishes -
Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an author.’
It won’t be the first time, mother, since I was an author.’
More like the fiftieth!’ she says almost gleefully, so I have begun well, for to keep up her spirits is the great thing to-day.
Knock at the door. It is the baker. I take in the bread, looking so sternly at him that he dare not smile.
Knock at the door. It is the postman. (I hope he did not see that I had the lid of the kettle in my other hand.)
Furious knocking in a remote part. This means that the author is in the coal cellar.
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