The Wayside Sphinx.[1]
by Mary Foote Arnold.
T does seem as if all the bad luck comes at once," Mrs. Seabrook complained. “First, the wheat crop failed last year; then I got down with the grip and it took every cent we had to buy medicine and pay the doctor's bill; next the barn burned down just after the insurance had run out; then, after we had raked and scraped to pay off the mortgage and thought we should be able to breathe freely once more, you had to break your leg and be laid up at harvest time; and now, with the Hill Farm to be bought for a mere nothing, we have to sit by and see some one else carry off the prize.” After setting forth this appalling array of disasters, Mrs. Seabrook leaned back in her chair and heaved a prodigious sigh.
"Why, mother, that bad luck didn't all come at once; it came gradually," said Ann, soothingly, though her eyes danced.
Mr. Seabrook, from his lounge in the corner, listened as to an oft-told tale. "It is hard lines, sure enough, wife; still, things might have been worse," he said.
"I should like to know how?" she asked, tartly.
"Don't you remember, mother," consoled Ann, "how you've said over and over that the mortgage was a stone around father's neck? And it's paid. And then you got well from the grip—Lucy White's mother died—father's leg is healing so that he will soon be able to work again; and you have me and father, and we all have one another."
"Goodness, child, how you do rattle on! Of course I know that we have much to be thankful for, but I do insist that we've had more than our share of misfortunes, with very little to encourage us." Having had the last word, Mrs. Seabrook departed for the kitchen.
- ↑ Copyright, 1901, by The Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
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