What Diantha Did. Charlotte Perkins Gilman

with that mother of his—and those four sisters.”

      “Ross is a good son,” said Mrs. Bell, “and a good brother. I never saw a better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet.”

      Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with light steps and no clatter of dishes.

      “I'm twenty-one,” she said.

      “Yes, you're twenty-one,” her mother allowed. “It don't seem possible, but you are. My first baby!” she looked at her proudly.

      “If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry—and to pay his father's debts—I'll be old enough,” said Diantha grimly.

      Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. “I know it's hard, dear child. You've only been engaged six months—and it looks as if it might be some years before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone.”

      “I should say he had!” Diantha burst forth. “Five helpless women!—or three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.”

      “They weren't brought up that way,” said Mrs. Bell. “Their mother don't approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman—and so does Ross—and so do I,” she added rather faintly.

      Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. “I don't agree with Mrs. Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother,” she said, “What I've got to tell you is this—I'm going away from home. To work.”

      Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes.

      “Why Diantha!” she said. “Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your Mother!”

      Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close—close.

      “It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's not because I don't love Ross either:—it's because I do. I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him—to help carry that awful load—and I'm going—to—do—it!”

      She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair.

      “I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren't they beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother! What's the matter? You're crying!”

      “Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way.

      “What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters. “Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!”

      She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding, “Come—what's the trouble?”

      “You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided to leave home, that's all.”

      “To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To leave home!—And Mother!”

      “Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother's eyes. “Well, why not? You left home—and Mother—before you were eighteen.”

      “That's different!” said her sister sharply. “I left to be married,—to have a home of my own. And besides I haven't gone far! I can see Mother every day.”

      “That's one reason I can go now better than later on,” Diantha said. “You are close by in case of any trouble.”

      “What on earth are you going for? Ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?”

      “No—nor likely to be for years. That's another reason I'm going.”

      “But what for, for goodness sake.”

      “To earn money—for one thing.”

      “Can't you earn money enough by teaching?” the Mother broke in eagerly. “I know you haven't got the same place this fall—but you can get another easy enough.”

      Diantha shook her head. “No, Mother, I've had enough of that. I've taught for four years. I don't like it, I don't do well, and it exhausts me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime.”

      “Well, I declare!” said her sister. “What do you expect to get? I should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!”

      Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around.

      “And you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?”

      “Why not?” said Diantha firmly. “Henderson did—when he was eighteen. None of you blamed him.”

      “I don't see what that's got to do with it,” her mother ventured. “Henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects that. But a girl—Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my health!”

      “I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!” said young Mrs. Peters.

      A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching, carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the door.

      “Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his youngest daughter laughingly. “And Mother will straighten it out after him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see him wait on me!”

      “A man should be master in his own household,” Mr. Bell proclaimed, raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the towel—which his wife handed him.

      “You won't have much household to be master of presently,” said Mrs. Peters provokingly. “Half of it's going to leave.”

      Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some explanation of this attempted joke, “What nonsense are you talking?” he demanded.

      “I think it's nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman—her hand on the doorknob. “But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you can—you won't get many more! There's Gerald—good night!” And off she ran.

      Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply crusted. “Supper's ready,” she said. “Do sit down, Mother,” and she held the chair for her. “Minnie's quite right, Father, though I meant not to tell you till you'd had supper. I am going away to work.”

      Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea. “You've got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he. “What are you talking about anyway?”

      Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing his delicate wife and three young children