ever breathed, our furniture was our own again, but what were we to do
for a living? Our crops were withering in the fields for want of rain,
and we had but five cows--not an over-bright outlook. As I was getting to
bed one night my mother came into my room and said seriously, "Sybylla, I
want to have a talk with you."

"Talk away," I responded rather sullenly, for I expected a long sing-song
about my good-for-nothingness in general--a subject of which I was
heartily tired.

"Sybylla, I've been studying the matter over a lot lately. It's no use,
we cannot afford to keep you at home. You'll have to get something to
do."

I made no reply, and my mother continued, "I am afraid we will have to
break up the home altogether. It's no use; your father has no idea of
making a living. I regret the day I ever saw him. Since he has taken to
drink he has no more idea of how to make a living than a cat. I will have
to give the little ones to some of the relatives; the bigger ones will
have to go out to service, and so will your father and I. That's all I
can see ahead of us. Poor little Gertie is too young to go out in the
world (she was not twelve months younger than I); she must go to your
grandmother, I think."

I still made no reply, so my mother inquired, "Well, Sybylla, what do you
think of the matter?"

"Do you think it absolutely necessary to break up the home?" I said.

"Well, you suggest something better if you are so clever," said mother,