No More Learning

I felt quite ill nevertheless, and fainted away in the Queen's
room. My mother's maid exclaimed, on seeing me, “Good gra-
cious, your Royal Highness, what is the matter ? you look dread-
ful! " I looked in the glass, and saw that my face and neck
were covered with red spots. I told her I had been very much
agitated, and that this was the result. I fainted again several
times. The red spots disappeared as soon as I was in the cold
air, appearing again in the heat of the room. I was obliged to
keep about as best I could, as I was unable to get to bed. That
night I was attacked by violent fever, which left me So weak
next morning that I was obliged to ask my mother to excuse me
from coming to her. She sent me word that dead or alive I
must go to her. I then sent word that I had a rash which made
it impossible. She however repeated her command, and I was
carried into her room, where I went from one fainting-fit into
another. In this condition I was dragged to the King. My sis.
ter, seeing that I was ready to give up the ghost, said to the
King, “I beseech you, dear father, let my sister return to her
room: she has fever, and cannot even stand. ” The King asked
me if this were true. “You look very ill,” he said, “but I will
I
cure you; and he forced me to drink a whole goblet full of
very strong old Rhine wine.
My rash had gone in, and I was
fighting with death.
I had no
sooner drunk the wine than I
began to be delirious, and begged my mother to have me taken
to my room. This she granted on condition that I would leave
it again in the evening.
I laid myself down without taking off my head-dress; but
no sooner was I in bed than the violence of the fever deprived
me of my reason.
The doctor who was called in pronounced me
>>


## p. 15979 (#325) ##########################################

WILHELMINE VON BAYREUTH
15979
to be suffering from an inflammatory fever, and gave me three
remedies not at all suitable to my present illness. From time
to time I recovered consciousness, and then I prayed that God
would take me to himself. Amidst bitter tears I said to Ma-
demoiselle von Sonnsfeld, “The many sufferings I have been
through have made me indifferent to this world, and now Provi-
dence will grant me the highest bliss. I am the cause of all my
mother's and brother's sorrows: my death will put an end to
these. If I die, promise me to say two things in my name to
the King: first that I beg he will restore me his affections, and
secondly, implore him to be kinder towards my mother and my
brother. ” I lay for thirty-six hours between life and death, and
at last small-pox declared itself.
The King had never once inquired after me since the com-
mencement of my illness. As soon, however, as he heard the
nature of my complaint, he sent his court surgeon to find out if
I really had small-pox. This rude personage said many unkind
things to me in the King's name, besides being most repulsive
in his own behavior. At any other time this would have pro-
voked my anger, but I was now far too ill to notice his inso-
lence. Upon the doctor's confirming the statement that I had
the small-pox, I was put into quarantine. All communication
with my rooms was cut off, and nobody about the King and
Queen was allowed to come near me. I felt that I was being
treated like a plague-stricken creature. My governess and my
maid were the only attendants I had. Though I lay in an icy
cold room, deserted by the whole world, I had the comfort of my
brother's visits. He had had the small-pox, and came daily to
spend with me what spare time he had. The Queen sent inces-
santly to inquire after me, but was not allowed to see me. For
nine days I was as ill as I could be. All the symptoms seemed
to point towards a fatal termination, and those who saw
thought I should be marked for life. I escaped death, however,
and not a trace remained of this fearful malady.
Meanwhile M. von Bremer, who had been sent by the Mar-
grave of Anspach, arrived at Berlin. My sister's betrothal by
proxy then took place, the ceremony being of the simplest
description. The King had got rid of his gout and of his bad
temper, preserving the latter towards me alone. That charming
Holzendorf never entered my room without bringing me
disagreeable message from him. This bad man was in the very
me
some


## p. 15980 (#326) ##########################################

15980
WILHELMINE VON BAYREUTH
SO.
highest favor, and everybody bowed before him. He used his
advantages, however, to do as much harm as he could, particu-
larly to the Queen, my brother, and myself. He was Seckendorf's
creature; and that says volumes.
My father was now kinder towards my brother, but merely
because he thought it politic to be so; and because Grumkow,
into whose hands he had completely fallen, advised him to be
Count Finkenstein and Colonel Kalkstein were in Grum-
kow's way, and prevented his carrying out his plans. They were
therefore to be got rid of, under the pretext that my brother no
longer required governors. He persuaded the King to agree to
their discharge, and succeeded. The two governors were dis-
missed in an honorable manner, both of them receiving a good
pension for their services. They were replaced by two officers
who had not the slightest power over my brother. The one was
Colonel Rochow, the other M. von Kaiserling. The former, as
will be seen in the course of these memoirs, was no genius; and
the other, while exceedingly clever, had no religion of any kind.
He had read a great deal, and boasted of being somewhat of
a poet. It will be easily understood that my brother infinitely
preferred Kaiserling to Rochow. The former's love of science
and learning made him a very agreeable companion. They had
not long been together before the conversation turned on reli-
gious subjects. Kaiserling raised doubts in my brother's mind.
These doubts were, as I shall hereafter show, indelibly strength-
ened by another person.
My brother came to me every day, and we occupied ourselves
in reading and writing. I remember well how we read Scarron's
comic novel, and made satires from it applicable to the King's
entourage. We called Grumkow, La Rancune; the Margrave of
Schwedt, who had reappeared with his pretensions, Saldague;
Seckendorf, La Rapinière. We did not even spare the King; but
I must not say which part we assigned to him. We showed our
performance to the Queen, who was greatly amused at it. I fear
we deserved a severe reprimand. Children ought never to lose
sight of the respect and honor they owe their parents. I have
reproached myself a thousand times since, for acting so much
against this precept. Our youth, and the approval our efforts at
authorship met with, must to some extent be our excuse.
Madame de Bouvillon was not forgotten in our satirical novel:
we gave her name to the Queen's mistress of the robes, whom


## p. 15981 (#327) ##########################################

WILHELMINE VON BAYREUTH
15981
I was
we thought she resembled. We often joked in her presence
about it, so that she became curious to know who this Madame de
Bouvillon was. I told her that the Queen of Spain's Camerera
Majors” were called so, and they all had to be of this family.
Six weeks after this, at one of the Queen's receptions, the con-
versation turned on the Spanish court; and my mother's mistress
of robes thought she could not do better to show the world
how much she knew about it than by saying that all “Camerera
Majors” were of the family of Bouvillon. Everybody laughed,
and she found out that she had been taken in. After inquiring
further, and being made acquainted with the story of the heroine
to whom I had given the rank of “Camerera Major,” she per-
ceived at once that I had made fun of her, and was so extremely
angry that I had the greatest trouble in appeasing her.
very fond of her, and knew her worth; and what I had done
was done to amuse the Queen. Since then I have left off turn-
ing people into ridicule: it is wiser to find fault with one's self.
How easily the faults of others are perceived by us! whilst to
our own we are blind. But I must return to my story.
As the Margrave of Anspach was expected in a week, and as
neither he nor my sister had had the small-pox, I was sent away
from Potsdam. Before my departure I went to see the King,
but my mother would not allow me to remain long with him.
He was generally so unkind to me that, as I had not yet quite
recovered my strength, the Queen was afraid the agitation would
be bad for me.
My sister's wedding took place amidst great pomp and rejoi-
cing. She took her departure with her husband a fortnight after-
wards, and I was then set at liberty.
We did not remain long in Berlin, but joined the King at
Wusterhausen, where the quarrels began afresh. Not a day
passed without some scene or other. The King's anger against
my brother and myself reached such a pitch that, with the ex-
ception of the hours for our meals, we were banished both from
his presence and the Queen's. He scarcely allowed us the neces-
saries of life, and we were tormented with hunger from morning
till night. Our only food was coffee and milk; and during din-
ner and supper time we were honored with epithets anything
but pleasing Of an afternoon we went secretly to see the
Queen; and whilst we were with her she always had her spies
watching to inform her in good time of the King's approach.


## p. 15982 (#328) ##########################################

15982
WILHELMINE VON BAYREUTH
One day whilst we were with her, she had not, through some
carelessness or other, had early enough notice of my father's
return. There was only one door to the room in which we were,
so that we had to make up our minds at once what to do. My
brother hid himself in a cupboard, and I slipped under my
mother's bed. We had scarcely had time to do so before the
King entered the room. He was unfortunately very tired, sat
down, and went to sleep for two hours. I was in a most uncom-
fortable position, and nearly smothered hiding under that low
bed. I peeped out from time to time to discover if the King
was still asleep. Anybody who had witnessed this occurrence
must have laughed.
At last the King woke up, and left the room; we crept from
our hiding-places, and implored the Queen never to expose us to
a similar "comedy” again. I often begged the Queen to allow
me to write to the King, asking him the reason of his anger
against me, and begging his forgiveness. She would not let me
do so, however. She said it would be of no use: "Your father
would only grant you his favor on condition that you married
either the Margrave of Schwedt or the Duke of Weissenfels. ”
I quite saw the force of these arguments, and had to submit.
A few peaceful days followed these storms, but alas, only to
make way for still worse. The King went to Libnow, where he
met the King of Poland and his son. In spite of all the diffi-
culties that had been placed in his way, my father still hoped to
arrange a marriage between me and the King of Poland. The
Crown Prince of Poland persistently turned a deaf ear to the
entreaties of both sovereigns, and was not to be induced to sign
the marriage contract. My father, finding himself forced to give
up this plan, deemed it right at once to solemnly betroth me,
during the King of Poland's visit, to the Duke of Weissenfels.
On his return to Wusterhausen, my father passed through the
small town of Dam, which belonged to this prince, and stopped
there a few days. During his absence we had remained at
Wusterhausen, and consequently enjoyed some peace and quiet:
but this all came to an end as soon as the King returned. He
never saw my brother without threatening him with his stick;
and this latter often said to me that he would respectfully bear
all ill treatment save blows, but that if it came to these he would
run away.


## p. 15983 (#329) ##########################################

15983
MARY E. WILKINS
(1855? -)
OME of the most artistic and pleasing fiction by the younger
school of American writers has been that dealing with the
rural types of New England. Half a century ago, Sylvester
Judd in his Margaret' revealed the possibilities of this field. With
increasing skill and carefulness of observation it has been cultivated
since by capable native authors. A pioneer like Mrs. Stowe has been
followed in later days by Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke, Mrs. Slosson, Miss
Jewett, and Miss Wilkins; and the depiction of New England char-
acter has been fruitful for literature.
Mary E. Wilkins, of the younger school,
has been markedly popular and successful.
She began in the 1880's to publish unpreten-
tious magazine stories, not striking enough
to make a sensation, and hence not attract-
ing general attention until gathered into
book form. But they revealed an intimate
knowledge of the poetry, humor, and pathos
of the life of plain country folk, a deep
though not obtrusive sympathy with their
every-day lot. The plot with Miss Wilkins
is little; the analysis of character, the pict-
ure of a bit of human nature, much, - every- MARY E. WILKINS
thing, indeed. She has come naturally into
a first-hand acquaintance with the people and scenes she elects to
represent. Born in the little Massachusetts village of Randolph, Miss
Wilkins was educated at that typical New England institution, Mt.
Holyoke Seminary. For a time she lived at Brattleboro, Vermont; but
in 1883 returned to her native town, which has since been her head-
quarters. Thus she has been able to study long and closely the
New England men and women — the latter in especial — who throng
her pages. Old maids in the pale virginal round of their days; child-
ren with their homely little doings and very actual pleasures and
heart-aches; day laborers with their touches of uncouth chivalry;
almshouse inmates sunning themselves in memories of bygone better
times; weather-worn farmers and their work-worn wives; girls love-
smitten, whose drama is none the less dramatic because expressed in

-
-


## p. 15984 (#330) ##########################################

15984
MARY E. WILKINS
dubious grammar, - such are the folk of her creation. The idyls and
tragedies of the rustic community — a world in little — are writ large
in her sketches; the New England traits are caught unerringly.
In spite of the strong work she has recently done in full-length fic-
tion, Miss Wilkins's art and talent are at the happiest in some of the
short tales to be found in such collections as A Humble Romance,'
A New England Nun,' and Young Lucretia. ' The first volume -
(The Adventure of Ann,' in 1886 — was an earnest of much short-
story fiction which has been recognized both in the United States
and England as distinguished and interesting work. In 1893 the play
(Giles Corey, Yeoman,' a graphic portrayal of colonial times, indi-
cated a desire to present life more romantically and objectively; and
the novels Jane Field' (1893), Pembroke) (1894), Madelon' (1895),
and Jerome: A Poor Man' (1897) bore further attestation to this
change in method. There is in these stories more interest of inci-
dent, and a definite attempt to paint more broadly, presenting life
in its more spectacular aspects. Plain country people are still her
subject-matter. The construction of this later fiction has grown stead-
ily firmer; and it may be that eventually Miss Wilkins's most power-
ful writing will be cast in this mold, - though this is hardly the case
at present.
Mary E. Wilkins, then, may be described as a realist increasingly
leaning towards romanticism. She has declared her two favorite
heroes to be Jean Valjean in 'Les Misérables,' and Thackeray's
Colonel Newcome; her favorite novel and play to be Hugo's story
named above, and Shakespeare's King Lear. The choice is signifi-
cant as indicating one who would appear to sympathize with the
romantic treatment and view of life. Miss Wilkins's most mature
work shows this tendency plainly; and indeed, in the best and most
typical of her earlier short tales, their charm comes from something
more than faithfulness in transcription. They have a delicate ideal-
ity, an imaginative suggestiveness, and a selective presentation of the
inner life of thought and feeling, which is to most human beings the
realest and most important part of existence. And these qualities in
the author remove her entirely from the category of those whose sole
stock-in-trade is a hard, narrow, vulgar insistence on so-called fact.


## p. 15985 (#331) ##########################################

MARY E. WILKINS
15985
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER »
'F
(
>>
:
From "A New England Nun, and Other Stories. ' Copyright 1891, by Harper
& Brothers
ATHER! »
« What is it? "
“What are them men diggin' over there in the field for ? ”
There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower
part of the old man's face, as if some heavy weight had settled
therein; he shut his mouth tight, and went on harnessing the
great bay mare. He hustled the collar on to her neck with a
jerk.
“Father! »
The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare's back.
“Look here, father, I want to know what them men are dig-
gin' over in the field for, an' I'm goin' to know. ”
"I wish you'd go into the house, mother, an' 'tend to your
own affairs,” the old man said then. He ran his words together,
and his speech was almost as inarticulate as a growl.
But the woman understood: it was her most native tongue.
"I ain't goin' into the house till you tell me what them men are
doin' over there in the field,” said she.
Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short and
straight-waisted like a child in her brown cotton gown. Her
forehead was mild and benevolent between the smooth curves of
gray hair; there were meek downward lines about her nose and
mouth: but her eyes, fixed upon the old man, looked as if the
meekness had been the result of her own will, never of the will
of another.
They were in the barn, standing before the wide open doors.
The spring air, full of the smell of growing grass and unseen
blossoms, came in their faces. The deep yard in front was lit-
tered with farm wagons and piles of wood; on the edges, close
to the fence and the house, the grass was a vivid green, and
there were some dandelions.
The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened the
last buckles on the harness. She looked as immovable to him as
one of the rocks in his pasture-land, bound to the earth with
generations of blackberry vines. He slapped the reins over the
horse and started forth from the barn.
"Father ! » said she.
XXVII-1000


## p. 15986 (#332) ##########################################

15986
MARY E. WILKINS
(
The old man pulled up. “What is it ? »
“I want to know what them men are diggin' over there in
that field for. ”
“They're diggin' a cellar, I s'pose, if you've got to know. ”
"A cellar for what ? »
"A barn. ”
“A barn! You ain't goin' to build a barn over there where
we was goin' to have a house, father ? »
The old man said not another word. He hurried the horse
into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the yard, jouncing as
sturdily on his seat as a boy.
The woman stood a moment looking after him; then she went
out of the barn across a corner of the yard to the house. The
house, standing at right angles with the great barn and a long
reach of sheds and out-buildings, was infinitesimal compared
with them. It was scarcely as commodious for people as the
.
little boxes under the barn eaves were for doves.
A pretty girl's face, pink and delicate as a flower, was look-
ing out of one of the house windows.
She was watching three
men who were digging over in the field which bounded the
yard near the road line. She turned quietly when the woman
entered.
“What are they digging for, mother? ” said she. “Did he tell
»
you?
new
« They're diggin' for -- a cellar for a new barn. ”
"O mother, he ain't goin' to build another barn?
«That's what he says.
A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. He
combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his brown hair in a
smooth hillock over his forehead. He did not seem to pay any
attention to the conversation.
«Sammy, did you know father was going to build a
barn? ” asked the girl.
The boy combed assiduously.
Sammy! ”
He turned, and showed a face like his father's under his
smooth crest of hair. “Yes, I s'pose I did,” he said reluctantly.
“How long have you known it ? ” asked his mother.
««'Bout three months, I guess.
“Why didn't you tell of it ? »
« Didn't think 'twould do no good. ”
>


## p. 15987 (#333) ##########################################

MARY E. WILKINS
15987
(
“I don't see what father wants another barn for," said the girl
in her sweet, slow voice, She turned again to the window, and
stared out at the digging men in the field. Her tender, sweet
face was full of a gentle distress. Her forehead was as bald and
innocent as a baby's, with the light hair strained back from it in
a row of curl-papers.
She was quite large, but her soft curves did not look as if
they covered muscles.
Her mother looked sternly at the boy. "Is he goin' to buy
more cows? ” said she. The boy did not reply: he was tying his
shoes.
Sammy, I want you to tell me if he's goin' to buy more
cows. ”
"I s'pose he is. ”
“How many ? ”
"Four, I guess. ”
His mother said nothing more. She went into the pantry, and
there was a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap from a nail
behind the door, took an old arithmetic from the shelf, and started
for school. He was lightly built, but clumsy. He went out of
the yard with a curious spring in the hips, that made his loose
home-made jacket tilt up in the rear.
The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes that
were piled up there. Her mother came promptly out of the pan-
try, and shoved her aside. "You wipe 'em,” said she; "I'll wash.
There's a good many this mornin'. "
The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water;
the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily. “Mother,” said
she, “don't you think it's too bad father's going to build that new
barn, much as we need a decent house to live in ? »
Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. “You 'a'n't found out
yet we're women-folks, Nanny Penn," said she. "You 'a'n't seen
enough of men-folks yet to. One of these days you'll find it out;
an' then you'll know that we know only what men-folks think we
do, so far as any use of it goes, an' how we'd ought to reckon
men-folks in with Providence, an' not complain of what they do
any more than we do of the weather. »
"I don't care: I don't believe George is anything like that,
anyhow,” said Nanny. Her delicate face fushed pink, her lips
pouted softly, as if she were going to cry.
(


## p. 15988 (#334) ##########################################

15988
MARY E. WILKINS
« You wait an' see. I guess George Eastman ain't no better
than other men. You hadn't ought to judge father, though. He
can't help it, 'cause he don't look at things jest the way we do.
An' we've been pretty comfortable here, after all. The roof don't
leak - 'a'n't never but once - that's one thing Father's kept it
shingled right up. ”
“I do wish we had a parlor. ”
"I guess it won't hurt George Eastman any to come to see
you
in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many girls don't
have as good a place as this. Nobody's ever heard me com-
plain. ”
(
>
“I 'a'n't complained either, mother. ”
“Well, I don't think you'd better,-a good father an' a good
home as you've got. S'pose your father made you go out an'
work for your livin'? Lots of girls have to that ain't no stronger
an' better able to than you be. ”
Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive air.
She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the inside. She
was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one living-
a
.
room never seemed to have in it any of the dust which the
friction of life with inanimate matter produces. She swept, and
there seemed to be no dirt to go before the broom; she cleaned,
and one could see no difference. She was like an artist so per-
fect that he has apparently no art. To-day she got out a mixing-
bowl and a board, and rolled some pies, and there was no more
flour upon her than upon her daughter, who was doing finer
work. Nanny was to be married in the fall, and she was sewing
on some white cambric and embroidery. She sewed industriously
while her mother cooked; her soft, milk-white hands showed
whiter than her delicate work.
« We must have the stove moved out in the shed before
long," said Mrs. Penn. Talk about not havin' things! it's been
a real blessin' to be able to put a stove up in that shed in hot
weather. Father did one good thing when he fixed that stove-
pipe out there. ”
Sarah Penn's face as she rolled her pies had that expres-
sion of meek vigor which might have characterized one of the
New Testament saints. She was making mince-pies. Her hus-
band, Adoniram Penn, liked them better than any other kind.
She baked twice a week. Adoniram often liked a piece of pie
»


## p. 15989 (#335) ##########################################

MARY E. WILKINS
15989
between meals. She hurried this morning. It had been later
than usual when she began, and she wanted to have a pie baked
for dinner. However deep a resentment she might be forced to
hold against her husband, she would never fail in sedulous atten-
tion to his wants.
Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes when it is
not provided with large doors. Sarah Penn's showed itself to-day
in flaky dishes of pastry. So she made the pies faithfully, while
across the table she could see, when she glanced up from her
work, the sight that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul, -
the digging of the cellar of the new barn where Adoniram, forty
years ago, had promised her their new house should stand.
The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy were
home a few minutes after twelve o'clock. The dinner was eaten
with serious haste. There was never much conversation at the
table in the Penn family. Adoniram asked a blessing, and they
ate promptly; then rose up and went about their work.
Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of the
yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles before school,
and feared his father would give him some chores to do. Adoni.
ram hastened to the door and called after him, but he was out of
sight.
"I don't see what you let him go for, mother,” said he. I
wanted him to help me unload that wood. ”
Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood from
the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner dishes, while Nanny took
down her curl-papers and changed her dress. She was going
down to the store to buy some more embroidery and thread.
When Nanny was gone Mrs. Penn went to the door, Father! "
she called.
“Well, what is it? ”
"I want to see you jest a minute, father. ”
“I can't leave this wood nohow. I've got to git it unloaded
an' go for a load of gravel afore two o'clock. Sammy had ought
to helped me. You hadn't ought to let him go to school so
»
early. ”
"I want to see you jest a minute. ”
"I tell ye I can't, nohow, mother. ”
“Father, you come here. " Sarah Penn stood in the door like
a queen; she held her head as if it bore a crown; there was


## p. 15990 (#336) ##########################################

15990
MARY E. WILKINS
»
(
that patience which makes authority royal in her voice. Adoniram
went.
Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a
chair. "Sit down, father,” said she: "I've got somethin' I want
to say to you. "
He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he looked
at her with restive eyes. “Well, what is it, mother? ”
"I want to know what you're buildin' that new barn for,
father? ”
"I 'a'n't got nothin' to say about it. ”
"It can't be you think you need another barn? ”
"I tell ye, I 'a'n't got nothin' to say about it, mother; an' I
ain't goin' to say nothin'. ”
“Be you goin' to buy more cows ? »
Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight.
"I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look
here,” — Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood before her hus-
band in the humble fashion of a Scripture woman, -"I'm goin'
to talk real plain to you; I never have sence I married you, but
I'm goin' to now. I 'a'n't never complained, an' I ain't goin' to
complain now, but I'm goin' to talk plain. You see this room
here, father: you look at it well. You see there ain't no carpet
on the floor, an' you see the paper is all dirty, an' droppin' off
the walls. We 'a’n't had no new paper on it for ten year, an'
then I put it on myself, an' it didn't cost but ninepence a roll.
You see this room, father: it's all the one I've had to work in
an' eat in an' sit in sence we was married. There ain't another
woman in the whole town whose husband 'a'n't got half the
means you have, but what's got better. It's all the room Nanny's
got to have her company in; an' there ain't one of her mates but
what's got better, an' their fathers not so able as hers is. It's all
the room she'll have to be married in. What would you have
thought, father, if we had had our weddin' in a room no better
than this? I was married in my mother's parlor, with a carpet
on the floor, an' stuffed furniture, an'a mahogany card table.
An' this is all the room my daughter will have to be married in.
Look here, father ! »
Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a tragic
stage. She flung open a door and disclosed a tiny bedroom,
.
only large enough for a bed and bureau, with a path between.


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MARY E. WILKINS
15991
»
“Now,
“There, father,” said she,- there's all the room I've had to
sleep in, forty year. All my children were born there, - the two
that died, an' the two that's livin'. I was sick with a fever
there. "
She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the
small, ill-lighted pantry. “Here," said she, “is all the buttery
I've got, - every place I've got for my dishes, to set away my
victuals in, an' to keep my milk-pans in. Father, I've been takin
care of the milk of six cows in this place, an' now you're goin'
to build a new barn, an' keep more cows, an' give me more to
do in it. "
She threw open another door. A narrow crooked Aight of
stairs wound upward from it. “There, father,” said she, “I want
you to look at the stairs that go up to them two unfinished
chambers, that are all the places our son an' daughter have had
to sleep in, all their lives. There ain't a prettier girl in town
nor a more ladylike one than Nanny, an' that's the place she has
to sleep in. It ain't so good as your horse's stall; it ain't so
warm and tight. ”
Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband.
father,” said she, “I want to know if you think you're doin' right
an' accordin' to what you profess. Here, when we was married,
forty year ago, you promised me faithful that we should have a
new house built in that lot over in the field before the year was
out. You said you had money enough, an' you wouldn't ask me
to live in no such place as this. It is forty year now, an' you've
been makin' more money, an' I've been savin’ of it for you ever
since, an' you ain't built no house yet. You've built sheds an'
cow-houses an' one new barn, an' now you're goin' to build
another. Father, I want to know if you think it's right. You're
lodgin' your dumb beasts better than you are your own flesh an'
blood. I want to know if you think it's right. ”
“I 'a'n't got nothin' to say. ”
“You can't say nothin' without ownin' it ain't right, father.
An' there's another thing - I 'a'n't complained; I've got along
forty year, an' I s'pose I should forty more, if it wa’n’t for that:
if we don't have another house, Nanny she can't live with us
after she's married. She'll have to go somewheres else to live
away from us; an' it don't seem as if I could have it so, noways,
father, She wa'n't ever strong. She's got considerable color,


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15992
MARY E. WILKINS
»
but there wa'n't never any backbone to her. I've always took
the heft of everything off her, an' she ain't fit to keep house an'
do everything herself. She'll be all worn out inside of a year.
Think of her doin' all the washin' an ironin' an' bakin' with them
soft white hands an' arms, an' sweepin'! I can't have it so, no-
ways, father. »
Mrs. Penn's face was burning, her mild eyes gleamed. She
had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she had ranged
from severity to pathos: but her opponent employed that obsti-
nate silence which makes eloquence futile with mocking echoes.
Adoniram arose clumsily.
“Father, 'a'n't you got nothin' to say ? ” said Mrs. Penn.
« I've got to go off after that load of gravel. I can't stan'
here talkin' all day. ”
“Father, won't you think it over, an’ have a house built there
instead of a barn ? »
“I 'a'n't got nothin' to say. ”
Adoniram shuffled out.