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Updated: May 29, 2025
It ain't you nor me that ought to grudge her fortune to her, nor wish her where she might have been otherwise." "That's so," said the young man. Abby's hand tightened over the one on the kerosene-can. "You are a good fellow, Granville Joy," she said again. Robert Lloyd was sitting on the veranda behind the green trail of vines when Ellen came up the walk.
Not one of the wreaths was so fine as Abby's, however. But, then, few little girls had fifteen cents to expend upon one. Abby perceived at a glance that most of those worn by her companions were of the ten-cent variety.
These took place at houses in undesirable, sometimes unsavory localities and only Aunt Abby's immovable determination made it possible for her to attend. A large text-book, "The Voice of the Future," was her inseparable companion, and one of her chief, though, as yet, unfulfilled, desires was to have a Reading given at the Embury home by the Swami Ramananda.
"Give me back those thirty years!" whimpered the old voice. "They are mine! You have stolen them from me!" Abby's hair rose. "Is Marian going mad?" she thought. But the next morning Miss Webster looked as usual when she appeared, after her late breakfast in bed, bedecked for her drive to market.
Bartholomew Cole's trade was that of a joiner; as for Aunt Abby's, it can only be said that she made all trades her own by sovereign right of investigation, and what she did not know about her neighbor's occupations was unlikely to be discovered on this side of Jordan. One of the villagers declared that Aunt Abby and her neighbor, Mrs.
William had not sent down any more money, though his letters had been kind, and had always spoken of the warm welcome that awaited them any time they wished to come home. Toward the end of the fifth week a bright idea came to Jeremiah. "We'll go to Cousin Abby's," he announced gleefully to his wife. "Nathan said last night he'd drive us over there any time.
It would be cowardly to drop the burden on Abby's shoulders, she only a woman like the rest of them, even if she had somewhat more sense. So Jacques De Arthenay sat by his fire till it was cold and dead, a miserable and a wrathful man; and he too slept little that night.
"Hello, girls," he said, gaily; "how's things?" He kissed Eunice, shook Aunt Abby's hand and dropped into an easy chair. "Things are whizzing," he said, as he took the cup Eunice poured for him. "I've just come from the Club, and our outlook is rosy-posy. Old Hendricks is going to get, badly left." "It's all safe for you, then, is it?" and Eunice smiled radiantly at her husband. "Right as rain!
She was in a towering fury, her face was white and her lips compressed to a straight scarlet line. "Give up the case! I will take my chances with any judge or jury rather than with you!" She faced Stone like the "Tiger" her husband had nicknamed her. "I have heard every word Aunt Abby's story and your conclusions! Your despicable 'deductions, as I suppose you call them!
Some of them were graven by self-denial and hard work; others perhaps meant the giving up of home, of parents and brothers or sisters; perhaps some worldly love, the love that Father Adam bequeathed to the human family, had been slain in Abby's youth, and the scars still remained to show the body's suffering and the spirit's triumph.
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