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Page 26
"The way Lily Miller used to talk about Luella was enough to make
you mad and enough to make you cry," said Lydia Anderson. "I've
been in there sometimes toward the last when she was too feeble to
cook and carried her some blanc-mange or custard--somethin' I
thought she might relish, and she'd thank me, and when I asked her
how she was, say she felt better than she did yesterday, and asked
me if I didn't think she looked better, dreadful pitiful, and say
poor Luella had an awful time takin' care of her and doin' the
work--she wa'n't strong enough to do anythin'--when all the time
Luella wa'n't liftin' her finger and poor Lily didn't get any care
except what the neighbours gave her, and Luella eat up everythin'
that was carried in for Lily. I had it real straight that she did.
Luella used to just sit and cry and do nothin'. She did act real
fond of Lily, and she pined away considerable, too. There was
those that thought she'd go into a decline herself. But after Lily
died, her Aunt Abby Mixter came, and then Luella picked up and grew
as fat and rosy as ever. But poor Aunt Abby begun to droop just
the way Lily had, and I guess somebody wrote to her married
daughter, Mrs. Sam Abbot, who lived in Barre, for she wrote her
mother that she must leave right away and come and make her a
visit, but Aunt Abby wouldn't go. I can see her now. She was a
real good-lookin' woman, tall and large, with a big, square face
and a high forehead that looked of itself kind of benevolent and
good. She just tended out on Luella as if she had been a baby, and
when her married daughter sent for her she wouldn't stir one inch.
She'd always thought a lot of her daughter, too, but she said
Luella needed her and her married daughter didn't. Her daughter
kept writin' and writin', but it didn't do any good. Finally she
came, and when she saw how bad her mother looked, she broke down
and cried and all but went on her knees to have her come away. She
spoke her mind out to Luella, too. She told her that she'd killed
her husband and everybody that had anythin' to do with her, and
she'd thank her to leave her mother alone. Luella went into
hysterics, and Aunt Abby was so frightened that she called me after
her daughter went. Mrs. Sam Abbot she went away fairly cryin' out
loud in the buggy, the neighbours heard her, and well she might,
for she never saw her mother again alive. I went in that night
when Aunt Abby called for me, standin' in the door with her little
green-checked shawl over her head. I can see her now. 'Do come
over here, Miss Anderson,' she sung out, kind of gasping for
breath. I didn't stop for anythin'. I put over as fast as I
could, and when I got there, there was Luella laughin' and cryin'
all together, and Aunt Abby trying to hush her, and all the time
she herself was white as a sheet and shakin' so she could hardly
stand. 'For the land sakes, Mrs. Mixter,' says I, 'you look worse
than she does. You ain't fit to be up out of your bed.'
"'Oh, there ain't anythin' the matter with me,' says she. Then she
went on talkin' to Luella. 'There, there, don't, don't, poor
little lamb,' says she. 'Aunt Abby is here. She ain't goin' away
and leave you. Don't, poor little lamb.'
"'Do leave her with me, Mrs. Mixter, and you get back to bed,' says
I, for Aunt Abby had been layin' down considerable lately, though
somehow she contrived to do the work.
"'I'm well enough,' says she. 'Don't you think she had better have
the doctor, Miss Anderson?'
"'The doctor,' says I, 'I think YOU had better have the doctor. I
think you need him much worse than some folks I could mention.'
And I looked right straight at Luella Miller laughin' and cryin'
and goin' on as if she was the centre of all creation. All the
time she was actin' so--seemed as if she was too sick to sense
anythin'--she was keepin' a sharp lookout as to how we took it out
of the corner of one eye. I see her. You could never cheat me
about Luella Miller. Finally I got real mad and I run home and I
got a bottle of valerian I had, and I poured some boilin' hot water
on a handful of catnip, and I mixed up that catnip tea with most
half a wineglass of valerian, and I went with it over to Luella's.
I marched right up to Luella, a-holdin' out of that cup, all
smokin'. 'Now,' says I, 'Luella Miller, 'YOU SWALLER THIS!'
"'What is--what is it, oh, what is it?' she sort of screeches out.
Then she goes off a-laughin' enough to kill.
"'Poor lamb, poor little lamb,' says Aunt Abby, standin' over her,
all kind of tottery, and tryin' to bathe her head with camphor.
"'YOU SWALLER THIS RIGHT DOWN,' says I. And I didn't waste any
ceremony. I just took hold of Luella Miller's chin and I tipped
her head back, and I caught her mouth open with laughin', and I
clapped that cup to her lips, and I fairly hollered at her:
'Swaller, swaller, swaller!' and she gulped it right down. She had
to, and I guess it did her good. Anyhow, she stopped cryin' and
laughin' and let me put her to bed, and she went to sleep like a
baby inside of half an hour. That was more than poor Aunt Abby
did. She lay awake all that night and I stayed with her, though
she tried not to have me; said she wa'n't sick enough for watchers.
But I stayed, and I made some good cornmeal gruel and I fed her a
teaspoon every little while all night long. It seemed to me as if
she was jest dyin' from bein' all wore out. In the mornin' as soon
as it was light I run over to the Bisbees and sent Johnny Bisbee
for the doctor. I told him to tell the doctor to hurry, and he
come pretty quick. Poor Aunt Abby didn't seem to know much of
anythin' when he got there. You couldn't hardly tell she breathed,
she was so used up. When the doctor had gone, Luella came into the
room lookin' like a baby in her ruffled nightgown. I can see her
now. Her eyes were as blue and her face all pink and white like a
blossom, and she looked at Aunt Abby in the bed sort of innocent
and surprised. 'Why,' says she, 'Aunt Abby ain't got up yet?'
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