“So I’ve got to retrench, and I only wish I could do it all myself, instead of involving Mother and you children. But that’s just what I can’t do. We shall have to spend just as little money as possible, and it will mean sending away the servants, living very simply, and—I must take you two from school. I hate to say it, but there’s no help for it. School costs me close on £300 a year, and I can’t spare it. Besides, we’ll need your help. I know you’ll save Mother in the house as much as you can, and I think you should be able to teach Billy for a year or so. That will save a governess. Possibly you’ll even give me a hand on the place now and then, for I must do with as little outside labour as I can. I expect I can reckon on you two when I need a couple of extra hands, mustering.”
Jo gulped at this point. “Isn’t he a darling?” she said irrelevantly.
“Well, that’s all, and I’m afraid it’s an awful bombshell for you, little chaps. It might have been better to wait to tell you, but we have always faced things, and I thought you might prefer to tell your mates yourselves, instead of having to write explanations and good-byes. I’m writing to tell Miss Dampier. I shall always be sorry that Mother’s old School had only a year’s chance at you: the School that turned out Mother has a big thing to its credit, and I was awfully glad to send you there. It is a bitter disappointment to us both to have to take you away. I wish I’d been able to manage better for you, kiddies.
“Oh, poor old chap!” said Jean. “Poor old chap!”
“Oh, isn’t it just rotten luck for him!” said Jo. “My word, Jean, we’ll have to buck up and help him!”
Which remarks Miss Dampier would certainly have condemned on principle as unladylike. But it is doubtful if Father would have found any fault.
“Mother simply isn’t fit to do much work, of course,” said Jean. “I wonder what we can do, Jo. Do you suppose we can run things for her?”
“We’ll have a jolly hard try,” responded her twin. “After all, we ought to be able to do a good bit. But—Jean—_Sarah_? Can you imagine Mother without Sarah!”
Sarah had been part and parcel of the Weston household as long as the twins could remember. There had never been a time when she had not ruled unquestioned in the kitchen: tall, lean to the point of scragginess, dour and short of speech, but with a heart of gold that belonged entirely to her mistress. Housemaids came and went, after the manner of housemaids, but Sarah was as the fixed stars. When sickness came she was a tower of strength: nothing came amiss to her, and she would sit up all night as tirelessly as she would work all day. Mrs. Weston was not strong, and Sarah watched over her as a warlike hen watches a delicate chick. It was unthinkable that Mother should be without her.