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Poole, Ernest, 1880-1950

"His Family"

Her convalescence over at last, she
was leaving for the mountains.
"Do learn your lesson, Deborah dear," she urged upon her sister. "Let Sarah
pack your trunk at once and come up with me on Saturday night."
"I can't get off for two weeks yet."
"Why can't you?" Edith demanded. And when Deborah spoke of fresh air camps
and baby farms and other work, Edith's impatience only grew. "You'll have
to leave it to somebody else! You're simply in no condition!" she cried.
"Impossible," said Deborah. Edith gave a quick sigh of exasperation.
"Isn't it enough," she asked, "to have worked your nerves to a frazzle
already? Why can't you be sensible? You've got to think of yourself a
little!"
"You'd like me to marry, wouldn't you, dear?" her sister put in wearily.
"Yes, I should, while there is still time! Just now you look far from it!
It's exactly as Allan was saying! If you keep on as you're going you'll be
an old woman at thirty-five!"
"Thank you!" said Deborah sharply. Two spots of color leaped in her checks.
"You'd better leave me, Edith! I'll come up to the mountains as soon as I
can! And I'll try not to look any more like a hag than I have to!
Good-night!"
Roger followed Edith out of the room.
"That last shot of mine struck home," she declared to him in triumph.
"I wouldn't have done it," her father said. "I gave you that remark of
Baird's in strict confidence, Edith--"
"Now father," was her good-humored retort, "suppose you leave this matter
to me.


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