He was glad he had
been able to surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do
so he had been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he
owned, one after another.
But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her room
by illness for many years before God had sent her release from pain.
Thank God, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without worrying
over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always cheerful; her
favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily
upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to care for her,
in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's appetite; fresh
eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had come from their
own farm.
It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save
that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which
stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that
garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing there.
Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large
chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where she
could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he would
glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that
sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes
fixed upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and
out through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village
and thence to the city beyond.
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