“O ’Manda, don’t call him names-!
I can’t bear to have you!”
“Names? If you was anybody at all, you
wouldn’t look at him! You wouldn’t
think of him!”
“O ’Manda, ’Manda! You know
I can’t let you talk so,” moaned Statira.
“Talk? I could talk my head off!
’You must not think I was provoked with you,’”
she mimicked Lemuel’s dignity of diction in
mincing falsetto. “‘I will come to see
you very soon.’ Miserable, worthless, conceited
whipper-snapper!”
“O ’Manda, you’ll break my heart
if you go on so!”
“Well, then, give him up! He’s goin’
to give you up.”
“Oh, he ain’t; you know he ain’t!
He’s just busy, and I know he’ll come.
I’ll bet you he’ll be here to-morrow.
It’ll kill me to give him up.”
She had lifted herself from the pillow, and she began
to cough.
“He’ll kill you anyway,” cried ’Manda
Grier, in a passion of pity and remorse. She
ran across the room to get the medicine which Statira
had to take in these paroxysms. “There,
there! Take it! I sha’n’t say
anything more about him.”
“And do you take it all back?” gasped
Statira, holding the proffered spoon away.
“Yes, yes! But do take your med’cine,
St’ira, ’f you don’t want to die
where you set.”
“And do you think he’ll come?”
“Yes, he’ll come.”
“Do you say it just to get me to take the medicine?”
“No, I really do believe he’ll come.”
“O ’Manda, ’Manda!” Statira
took her medicine, and then wildly flung her arms
round ’Manda Grier’s neck, and began to
sob and to cry there. “Oh, how hard I am
with you, Manda! I should think if I was as hard
with everybody else, they’d perfectly hate me.”
“You hard!”
“Yes, and that’s why he hate me.
He does hate me. You said he did.”
“No, St’ira, I didn’t. You
never was hard to anybody, and the meanest old iceberg
in creation couldn’t hate you.”
“Then you think he does care for me?”
“Yes.”
“And you know he’ll come soon?”
“Yes.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“O’Manda, O’Manda!”
Lemuel had promised himself that if he could gain
a little time he should be able better to decide what
it was right for him to do. His heart lifted
as he dropped the letter into the box, and he went
through the chapters which Mr. Corey asked him to read,
after he came in, with an ease incredible to himself.
In the morning he woke with a mind that was almost
cheerful. He had been honest in writing that
letter, and so far he had done right; he should keep
his word about going soon to see Statira, and that
would be honest too. He did not look beyond this
decision, and he felt, as we all do, more or less
vaguely when we have resolved to do right, that he
had the merit of a good action.
