The Swing of the Pendulum by Adriana Spadoni

"Are you sure you feel all right, mummy? You don't look as if you had slept very well."

"Nonsense, dear. I slept at least five hours straight off and you know -- -- "

"Oh, yes, I know. Napoleon never had more than four hours and Saint Catherine or Winifred or somebody else did mighty works on ten minutes. But they're not you."

Jean laid her arm across her mother's shoulders and drew her close. "You won't be silly, will you? If you don't feel well you'll 'phone me? There's nothing very special to-day."

Martha's face, smaller and frailer than ever, glowed with love satisfied, and for a moment she closed her eyes in the old spirit of humble gratitude. But Jean, looking down, saw only the thin hair, white now, and her throat contracted.

"Jean, sometimes I feel as if all my life, this last year has been waiting for me, one whole year, just exactly as it has been. Now that I waste so much time just sitting round, I think of it a lot."

The lines along the corners of Jean's mouth deepened and she looked old and tired. But her voice had the same brusque quality with which she had always forestalled any emotional demand. If the year had been wonderful to Martha, it had not been useless, and Jean was grateful.

"Of course, if you are trying to tell me, Martha Norris, that I used to bore you to death -- -- "

"Don't be flippant, Jean. You know perfectly well -- -- "

"There. That sounds more natural. I guess you're all right. But don't go and overdo. Will you promise me that?"

"I never do. I'm a regular parasite."

"Well, it agrees with your disposition, so keep it up. " Jean bent and kissed her. "You're really much nicer than you used to be, mummy. Pneumonia must be good for the soul."

"Got me into line at last, haven't you? But remember, even the effects of pneumonia wear off."

"Then I'll take my innings while they're going. Remember, if you go to service this afternoon you are to call a taxi. Do you hear? You are not to take any of those 'nice, quick walks' you are so addicted to. There's a wind like a knife blade to-day. Will you promise?"

"I'll use my judgment, dear."

"I leave you in peace. You are yourself. I don't believe you ever had pneumonia. Mummy, you've been faking."

Jean gave her mother another quick kiss, and went. From the street below, she looked up and waved. Martha waved back.

But when Jean was out of sight, Martha crossed to the side table where Jean had laid Mary's letter. Part of it Jean had read aloud, the first two paragraphs and on from the middle of the third page, but the part unread she had returned to twice, and when she slipped the letter back into its envelope, Martha had seen her hands tremble. Martha's own hands shook as she unfolded the pages, scrawled with the doctor's heavy black writing, vigorous and violent as Mary herself.

"Now listen, Jean, it's one chance in a million and you can have it if you want. I shall expire with envy, but I've just enough sanity left to know that I'm too old. To go to China and organize a kind of Red Cross -- Associated Charities -- Relief of the Poor, with trifles like directing the education of feminine China thrown in, because, years ago, little Wong Lee used our gymnasium and I treated him half way decently! He is now minister of something-or-other in New China and he throws this pearl at me. I would give twenty years of my life to do it, but I haven't twenty left, not ten even of any great use in such a big undertaking. But you! The old courage would come back. Things would be worth while again. You would -- -- " Here a word had been scratched, but Martha bent long and close over the paper and at last she made it out. "You would forget."

After the third effort, Martha succeeded in folding the sheets and getting them into their envelope. Then she went back to the chair by the window and sat down. Dampness came about her lips and temples and she closed her eyes.