Then she thought I might praise up my husband to Martin, saying what a
fine man he was to be sure, and how good he had been to me, and what a
proud woman I was to be married to him; but she was ashamed of that
almost as soon as she had said it, for it might not be true, and Martin
might see I was pretending.
Finally, she suggested that in order to create a coolness between Martin
and myself I might try not to be so nice to him, speaking short to him
sometimes, and even harsh and angry; but no, that would be too cruel,
especially from me, after all these years, just when he was going so far
away, too, and only the Lord and the blessed saints knew what was to
become of him.
It was Martin, Martin, always Martin. Still in her sweet motherly
selfishness she could think of nobody else. Fondly as she loved me, it
never occurred to her for a moment that if I did what she wished and
sent Martin away from me, I too would suffer. But a harder heart than
mine would have melted at the sight of her perplexity and distress, and
when with a helpless look she said:
"I don't know what you are to do--I really, really don't," I comforted
her (needing comfort so much myself), and told her I would find a way of
my own to do what she desired.
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