As the wide and capacious Kaskaskia houses were but a single story high,
Maria's bedroom was almost in the garden. Sweet-brier stretched above
the foundation and climbed her window; and there were rank flowers,
such as marigolds and peppery bouncing-betties, which sent her pungent
odors. Sometimes she could see her stepmother walking the graveled paths
between the vegetable beds, or her father and Rice strolling back and
forth together of an evening. Each one was certain to bring her
something,--a long-stemmed pink, or phlox in a bunch, like a handful of
honeycomb. The gardener pulled out dead vines and stalks and burned them
behind a screen of bushes, the thin blue smoke trailing low.
Her father would leave his office to sit beside her, holding the hand
which grew thinner every day. He had looked forward to his daughter's
coming as a blossoming-time in his life. Maria had not left her bed
since the night of her hemorrhage. A mere fortnight in the Territory
seemed to have wasted half her little body.
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