“Susie didn’t tend him like an own mother,” said Brother Tom, who was two years younger than Susan.  “I remember all about it.  All she did for him was to keep the flies off with an apple-tree limb, and she was for ever letting it drop on his face.”

“I recollect all about it,” said Susan:  “I pity myself now when I remember how tired and sleepy I used to get.  The room was always so quiet—­not a sound in it but the buzzing of the lazy flies and poor uncle’s hard breathing.  I used to feel as though I were in prison or all alone at a funeral.”

“But self-abnegation has its reward, Susie,” said Brother Tom, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, I’m free to acknowledge that I performed the duties at that bedside very reluctantly,” Susan answered.  “I had many a cry over my hard fate.  Indeed, I believe I always had to wash off the tear-stains before going to the task.  I can recall now just how the little red-eyed girl looked standing before the glass with towel and brush.  But still, I did keep the flies off, and I did bring uncle fresh water from the well, and perhaps I deserve a reward all the more because the work was distasteful.”

“Mother used to try to make me do it,” said Brother Tom.  “I remember how I used to slip away from the table while she was pouring out father’s fourth cup of coffee, and put for the playground, to escape that fly-brush.  I wasn’t a good boy, alas! or I might now be a happy man with all my debts paid.  I wish my mother had trounced me and made me keep those flies off Uncle Adolphus.”

Brother Tom was one of those people who are always trying to say and look funny things.  Sometimes he succeeded, and sometimes he didn’t.

“Anyhow, I think it’s a shame,” Gertrude said, pouting—­“downright mean for Uncle Adolphus to give you all that money, and never give me a cent.”

“Very likely.”  Susan replied dryly.

“Well, it is, Susie.  You’ve got lots more money now than you know what to do with:  you don’t need that money at all.”

“Don’t I?”

“No, you don’t, Susie:  you know you don’t.  You never go into society, and you wear your dresses the same way all the time, just as Grandma Summerhaze does.  But I’m just making my debut”—­and Gertrude flushed and tossed her head with a pretty confusion, because she was conscious of having made a sounding speech—­“and I need lots of things, such as the rest of the girls have.”

“My dear Gertrude,” began Brother Tom, “’beauty unadorned’—­”

“Oh, do, pray, Tom, have mercy upon us!” Gertrude said testily.  “Unfortunately, I happen not to be a beauty, so I need some adorning.  Moreover, I don’t admit that beauty can do without adorning.  There’s Minnie Lathrop:  she’s a beauty, but she wouldn’t improve herself by leaving off flowers and ribbons and laces, and dressing herself like a nun.  Dear me! she does have the loveliest things!  Mine are so shabby beside them.  I’m about the tag-end of our set, anyhow, in matters of dress.  I think, Susie, you might give me a hundred or two dollars.”