CHAPTER VI
HER MAID OF ALL WORK
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 woe-begone 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
