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Updated: June 19, 2025
"You complain of your father's treatment of you," said Sharlee, "but he offered you a liberal education there, and you declined to take it." She glanced at the clock, turned about to the table and picked up her beautiful bouquet.
It does not follow that, because I gave some of my time in the past to assisting her with her lessons, I can afford to give more of it now for purposes of of mere sociability. I make the situation clear to you?" Sharlee, to whom Fifi had long since made the situation clear, puckered her brow like one carefully rehearsing the several facts. "Yes, I believe that is all perfectly clear, Mr. Queed."
Sharlee put the flag in his buttonhole under her mother's watchful gaze. Then she got cushions and straw-mats, and explained their uses in connection with steps. Next, she gave a practical demonstration of the same by seating the young man, and sitting down beside him. "One thing I have noticed about loving the South. Everybody does it, who takes the trouble to know us.
She had never seen him less inclined to indict the world and his fortune. Queed sits on the Steps with Sharlee, and sees Some Old Soldiers go marching by. Far as the eye could see, either way, the street was two parallels of packed humanity. Both sidewalks, up and down, were loaded to capacity and spilling off surplus down the side-streets.
"I think Fifi will know ... and be glad," said Sharlee. "She liked and admired you. Only day before yesterday she spoke of you. Now she ... has gone, and this is the one way left for any of us to show that we are sorry." Long afterwards, Queed thought that if Charles Weyland's lashes had not glittered with sudden tears at that moment he would have refused her.
But worse than this was the bottomless despondency into which the girl's brief autobiography had strangely cast him. A vast mysterious depression had closed over him, which entirely robbed him of his usual adroit felicity of speech. He brought his explanation up to the publication of the unhappy article, and there abruptly broke off. A long silence followed his ending, and at last Sharlee said:
Queed, my niece Miss Weyland." But over the odious phrase, "my business woman," her lips boggled and balked; not to save her life could she bring herself to damn her own niece with such an introduction. Noticing the omission and looking through the reasons for it as through window-glass, Sharlee smothered a laugh, and bowed. Mr. Queed bowed, but did not laugh or even smile.
From the door the girl glanced back. Mr. Queed had drawn his heavy book before him, pencil in hand, and was once more engrossed in the study and annotation of "Man's Duty to His Neighbors." In the hail Sharlee met Fifi, who was tipping toward the dining-room to discover, by the frank method of ear and keyhole, how the grim and resolute collector was faring. "You're still alive, Sharlee! Any luck?"
"No, I don't know," he replied, disturbed by her look, he did not know why, and involuntarily lowering his voice. "I came down expressly to find out." "Fifi She " "Is worse again?" "She ... stopped breathing a few minutes ago." "Dead!" Sharlee winced visibly at the word, as the fresh stricken always will. The little Doctor turned his head vaguely away.
Here, doubtless, would some day stand the colossal work of Queed. At the big desk sat the Rev. Mr. Dayne, a practical idealist of no common sort, a kind-faced man with a crisp brown mustache. At the typewriter-table sat Sharlee Weyland, writing firm letters to thirty-one county almshouse keepers. It was hard upon noon. Sharlee looked tired and sad about the eyes. She had not been to supper at Mrs.
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