Gordon came to the funeral. Mabel was sick at home and May telegraphed that neither Martin nor herself would be able to come, explaining by letter that Martia had too heavy a cold to risk going and that she could n't think of such a thing as going all by herself in the winter in all that snow. They sent a very beautiful wreath, however.
When it was all over and Gordon and Sister Sue sat alone in the living-room with the heavy scent of roses bringing back the scene of the morning, Gordon cleared his throat a little self-consciously.
"Well, Sister Sue, this will mean a change, of course, for you. You won't want to stay here alone, surely."
"No. Oh, no. I should n't want to stay here alone." Sister Sue repeated the words a little mechanically.
"Well, you know, of course, that our latchstring is always out. We'd be very glad to have you come to live with us."
"Thank you—but—"
"Oh, no 'buts' now. Don't go to feeling sensitive, my dear," interrupted Gordon, a trifle patronizingly. "You won't be a bit in the way, so don't feel that you'll be a burden. On the contrary, you'll be a real help, and you'll find plenty to do, I'll warrant, so that you'll be paying for your board and keep all right," he laughed. "Grocery clerks with my pay can't afford maids, you know, and Mabel is so poorly, and has so much to do, what with the baby and all. Oh, you'll find plenty to do all right. Just remember that we'll be glad to have you, that's all—glad to have you. And now I must go if I'm going to catch that train," he finished, rising to his feet.
Sister Sue smiled faintly and thanked him for his invitation and said he was very kind. But not until after Gordon was in the train on his way home did he suddenly remember that Sister Sue had not told him whether she would accept his offer of a home or not.
Two days after the funeral came a letter from May. It was a very cordial letter, even a loving one. May wrote, she said, to assure her dear sister Sue that she would be most welcome to a home with them. And she said that Sister Sue need not worry at all about being under obligations nor feel as if she was accepting charity. That it would n't be so at all. They really needed her. She was such a splendid nurse that she would be a valuable addition to the family. And with the new baby coming in June her presence would be really a great comfort and help. Therefore, she need feel no hesitation on that score.
"So, now, come right along," she finished, signing herself as "Your affectionate and loving sister May."
For three days after this letter came, Sister Sue still went from room to room sorting, arranging, putting in order, doing the innumerable tasks that must always be done whenever one among us lays down her work for the last time. On the fourth day she went into Mrs. Preston's kitchen, where the old lady sat by the window in the sun. Wearily Sister Sue dropped into a chair.
"Well, Mrs. Preston, I—I've decided," she began, flushing a little.
"About—"
"What to do. I'm—going. I've got to go, Mrs. Preston. You don't know, but all these days—since since Father went—I've been fighting a battle."
"Yes, my dear." There was just enough but not too much interest in the voice of the little shrewd old lady.
"They want me. Gordon wants me, and May wants me. They say I need n't feel I'm a burden, nor that it's charity to give me a home."
The little old woman gave an indignant sniff, but Sister Sue went on without seeming to notice it.
"They say I can do enough, plenty enough, for my board and keep."
The old lady sniffed again, but Sister Sue still kept on unheeding.
"And it's true, I can do enough. I know I can. I'm really needed in both places, and that's the worst of it. I know I'm needed, but—I'm going to run away."
She paused, but only for breath.