CHAPTER XXI

During all this time she had heard from Crawford at least once a week.  He would have written oftener than that, had she permitted it.  And in spite of her determination so bravely expressed in their interview over the telephone, she had written him more than the one letter she had promised.  In that letter—­her first—­she told him the exact situation there at home; of her discovery that her uncles were in trouble, that the small, but to them precious, business they had conducted so long was in danger, and of her determination to give up school and remain at South Harniss where, she knew, she was needed.  Then she went on to tell of her still greater discovery, that instead of being a young woman of independent means, she was and always had been dependent upon the bounty of her uncles.

You can imagine how I felt when I learned this [she wrote], when I thought of all the kindness I had accepted at their hands, accepted it almost as if it was my right, thinking as I did that my own money paid.  And now to learn that all the time I had nothing and they had given of their own when they had so little, and given it so cheerfully, so gladly.  And, Crawford, when I told them what I had done, they would not accept thanks, they would not let me even speak of the great debt I owed them.  So far from that they acted as if they were the ones who owed and as if I had caught them in some disgraceful act.  Why, if they could, they would have sent me back to Boston and to school, while they remained here to work and worry until the bankruptcy they expected came.

Do you wonder that I feel my first and whole duty is to them and that nothing, nothing must be permitted to interfere with it?  I am going to stay here and try to help.  Perhaps I shall succeed, and perhaps, which is just as probable, I may fail; but at any rate while my uncles live and need me I shall not leave them.  They gave all they had to me when there was no real reason why they should give anything.  The very least I can do is to be with them and work for them now when they are growing old.

I am sure you must understand this and that, therefore, you will forget—­

She paused.  “Forget” was a hard word to write.  Fortunately she had written it at the top of a page, so she tore up that sheet and began the line again.

I am sure you will understand and that you will see my duty as I see it myself.  It seems to me clear.  Everyone has duties, I suppose, but you and I have ours very plainly shown us, I think.  Yours is to your father and mine to my uncles.

Bringing that letter to an end was a difficult task.  There were things which must be said and they were so very hard to say.  At last, after many attempts: