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Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith, 1856-1923

"Story of Waitstill Baxter"


The minutes passed, perhaps an hour; she did not take account of
time. The moon went behind clouds, the night grew misty and the
stars faded one by one. There would be rain to-morrow and there
was a great deal of hay cut, so she thought in a vagrant sort of
way.
Meanwhile Patty upstairs was in a state of suppressed excitement
and terror. It was a quarter of an hour before her father settled
him-self in bed; then an age, it seemed to her, before she heard
his heavy breathing. When she thought it quite safe, she slipped
on a print wrapper, took her shoes in her hand, and crept
noiselessly downstairs, out through the kitchen and into the
shed. Lifting the heavy bar that held the big doors in place she
closed them softly behind her, stepped out, and looked about her
in the darkness. Her quick eye espied in the distance, near the
barn, the bowed figure in the chair, and she flew through the wet
grass without a thought of her bare feet till she reached her
sister's side and held her in a close embrace.
"My darling, my own, own, poor darling!" she cried softly, the
tears running down her cheeks. "How wicked, how unjust to serve
my dearest sister so! Don't cry, my blessing, don't cry; you
frighten me! I'11 take care of you, dear! Next time I'll
interfere; I'll scratch and bite; yes, I'll strangle anybody that
dares to shame you and lock you out of the house! You, the
dearest, the patientest, the best!"
Waitstill wiped her eyes.


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