And now even she herself hardly realized that she had
ever owned to any other call. Poor Mart! I find myself wanting to use
the adjective over and over again when I speak of her. Such a desolate,
loveless life! Always a drunken father,--she had never known any other;
always a sharp-toned, weary-eyed, disheartened mother, who shut her
tenderness for the child within herself, as one who could not afford to
show it. Then Dirk, the one brother, going astray almost as soon as he
was born. What wonder, from such a home? Yet Mart wondered and felt
bitter over it. Why could not Dirk be like some others of whom she knew?
Like Sallie Calkin's brother, for instance, who worked day and night,
and brought home, often and often, an apple, or a herring, or sometimes
even a picture paper for Sallie! Mart was sharp-tongued; all her life
had taught her to be so. She spoke sharp words out of the bitterness of
her heart at Dirk, and of late rarely anything but sharp words, yet--and
this was Mart's secret, hidden away as if it were something of which to
be ashamed--she _loved_ Dirk, loved him fiercely, with all the
pent-up wealth of her young heart; and often, _because_ she loved
him, she was harsh and bitter towards him, though she did not herself
understand why this should be.
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