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Updated: July 5, 2025
Motherwell wished to discourage sleep-walking in his hired help, for the floor ended abruptly and a careless somnambulist would be precipitated on the old fanning mill, harrow teeth and other debris which littered the floor below. The young Englishman reeled unsteadily going up the ladder.
Motherwell did not like vines or trees around a house. They were apt to attract lightning and bring vermin. Potatoes grew from the road to the house; and around the front door, as high as the veranda, weeds flourished in abundance, undisturbed and unnoticed.
Thus the enemy sowed the tares. While Pearl was writing her experiences in her little red book, Mr. and Mrs. Motherwell were in the kitchen below reading a letter which Mr. Motherwell had just brought from the post office. It read as follows: BRANDON HOSPITAL, August 10th. Dear Mr. and Mrs.
"And Polly is dead!" burst from Mrs. Motherwell as something gathered in her throat. She laid the letter down and looked straight ahead of her. The sloping walls of the little kitchen loft, with its cobwebbed beams faded away, and she was looking into a squalid little room where an old woman, bent and feeble, sat working buttonholes with trembling fingers.
Peter Slater, the youngest of the family, who had just come in, laid down the milk-pails before replying. "We have done our best for them all, Nellie," he said modestly. "I hope they will repay us. But did I hear you say Tom Motherwell was coming?" "You heard Nell say so," Fred answered, checking over the names. "Nell seems to like Tom pretty well."
Tom had not been detained at all, but Mrs. Motherwell always used this form of salutation to be sure. Tom grumbled a reply, and handing out the mail began to unhitch. Mrs. Motherwell read the addresses on the Englishman's letters: Mr. Arthur Wemyss, c/o Mr. S. Motherwell, Millford P.O., Manitoba, Canada, Township 8, range 16, sec't. 20. North America.
Well, she was a kind of a good-natured, willin' thing too, and not too slow either." Mrs. Motherwell was still silent. She had not thought that Polly would die, she had always had great faith in the vitality of English people. "You can't kill them," she had often said; but now Polly was dead. She was sick, then, when she went around the house so strangely silent and flushed. Mrs.
I went over all his haunts two years ago, and have commemorated them in the book you will see by and by, the book that is to be, and there I have put on record the bride-cake, and the finding by you on my table your own edition of Motherwell. You are not angry, are you?
Pearl laid her bird-cage on a chair and was back so soon with the chips that Mrs. Motherwell could not think of anything to say. "Now go for the cows," she said, "and don't run them home!" "Where will I run them to then, ma'am?" Pearl asked innocently. "Good land, child, have I to tell you everything? Folks that can't do without tellin' can't do much with, I say.
Just look in the crack there and you'll see if he ain't sick." Mrs. Motherwell did see. Arthur lay tossing and moaning across his bed, his letter pad and pencil beside him on the floor. Mrs. Motherwell did not want Tom to go to Millford that night. One of the harvesters' excursions was expected was probably in then there would be a wild time. Besides, the two-dollar bill still worried her.
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