Master of the Vineyard

Worn and Weary

Craving the dear touch of him, the sound of his voice, or even the sight of his tall well-knit figure moving along swiftly in the dusk, she compelled herself to accept the situation, bitterness and all. Across her open window struck the single long deepening shadow that precedes daybreak, then grey lights dawned on the far horizon, paling the stars to points of pearl upon dim purple mists. Worn and weary, Rosemary slept until she was called to begin the day's dreary round of toil, as mechanical as the ticking of a clock.

Cold water removed the traces of tears from her cheeks, but her eyes were red and swollen. The cheap mirror exaggerated her plainness, while memory pitilessly emphasised the beauty of the other woman. As she dressed, the thought came to her that, no matter what happened, she could still go on loving him, that she might always give, whether or not she received anything at all in return.

"Service," she said to herself, remembering her dream, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer." If this indeed was love, she had it in fullest measure, so why should she ask for more?

Waiting for Breakfast "Rosemary!"

"Yes," she called back, trying hard to make her voice even, "I'm coming!"

"It beats all," Grandmother said, fretfully, when she rushed breathlessly into the dining-room. "For the life of me I can't understand how you can sleep so much."

Rosemary smiled grimly, but said nothing.

"Here I've been settin', waitin' for my breakfast, since before six, and it's almost seven now."

"Never mind," the girl returned, kindly; "I'll get it ready just as quickly as I can."

"I was just sayin'," Grandmother continued when Aunt Matilda came into the room, "that it beats all how Rosemary can sleep. I've been up since half-past five and she's just beginnin' to get breakfast, and here you come, trailin' along in with your hair not combed, at ten minutes to breakfast time. I should think you'd be ashamed."

"My hair is combed," Matilda retorted, quickly on the defensive.

"I don't know when it was," Grandmother fretted. "I ain't seen it combed since I can remember."

"Then it's because you ain't looked. Any time you want to see me combin' my hair you can come in. I do it every morning."

Fluffy Hair

Grandmother laughed, sarcastically. "'Pears like you thought you was one of them mermaids I was readin' about in the paper once. They're half fish and half woman and they set on rocks, combin' their hair and singin' and the ships go to pieces on the rocks 'cause the sailors are so anxious to see 'em they forget where they're goin'."