My father tried to be cheerful.

'Cry, girl, cry,' my mother said; 'only cry, and you'll be better.' I could not cry; I could not smile.

I could do nothing but help her silently in the long, hard work, day after day, summer and winter.
I read the books he had given me.

I thought of the things he had said.
I sat in my chamber when the floor was scrubbed, and the bread baked, and the dishes washed, and the flies buzzed in the hot, still kitchen.

I can hear them now.