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Show Page 3 Though Aunt Mary was only twenty-eight, she was more a mother to me than an aunt. I was only five when my mother died in childbirth. Being my father's sister, Aunt Mary, then eighteen, came to live with my father, James, and me. Poor Aunt Mary. I was a handful for her in those early years. I wonder she did not resent me, especially since she refused a proposal of marriage to care for me and father. At times I suspected father was as much a trial to Aunt Mary as I. He made little money, the which he promptly spent on books for the two of us to share, causing my aunt to despair lest there be not enough food for me to grow on. If it had not been for Aunt Mary's skill with the needle, her fears might have come true. At last the long night passed, and as grey light of morning began to finger its way into the ship, I raised myself on one elbow and studied my aunt. My stomach went a-tremble when I saw her flushed face, the dark hollows under her eyes. I touched her forehead and realized why the brabble with the rat had not awakened her. Aunt Mary was burning with fever. My heart churning within me, I rose and dipped a rag into the filthy water barrel. I wiped Aunt Mary's face and picked off the filthy lice, popping them angrily upon my fingernail. I wrapped both our rugs around her. Then I prayed. "Please dear God, do not let Aunt Mary die," I pleaded. "Do not let her die. She is all I have left in the world. Let |