Her Mother's Hope by Francine Rivers

count refused to return a single franc. He said she had taken space that should have been given to another girl, and he would not accept the loss. That was bad enough, but he made it worse by telling Papa a father should know whether his own child could bear separation from her family. I know God has a lesson for all of us in this.
    “Oh, Mama.” Her mother had unwittingly encouraged Elise’s dependence, but the full responsibility couldn’t be laid at her feet. Marta blamed herself for giving Papa the money to send Elise to Bern. He had made her feel so guilty when she had said no the first time.
    “If you loved your sister . . . if you weren’t so grasping and selfish . . . You think nothing of your family. . . . You hoard your francs when they could help. . . .”
    She should have told Papa how he’d been duped by those two counterfeits in Bern. Instead, she’d convinced herself Elise might benefit by getting away. Perhaps she would blossom among the other girls her age and enjoy Bern as much as Marta had. Marta had sent extra francs to Elise and told her to walk the Marktgasse and buy some chocolate and pastries at the Café Français .
    Now, all she could do was pray Papa wouldn’t take out his anger on Elise.
    Marta lifted the letter and continued reading.
Please don’t be angry with her. I know it was your money wasted, but Elise did try. She managed to stay three weeks before she wrote the first time. And she suffers now. Papa hasn’t spoken a word to her since he brought her home.
Elise helps me as much as she can. Her stitches are as fine as mine now. She will learn to work faster with more experience. She also helps Frau Zimmer with little Evrard. He is so dear, but he’s at that age when he’s into everything. He got away from her for a few minutes the other day. She is keeping closer watch now.
Write soon, Liebling. Your letters are a great comfort to us all. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May His face shine upon you. I love you.
Mama
    Marta folded the letter and tucked it back into her apron pocket. She would write and tell Mama to make Elise go to the market. She needed to learn to talk with people. She could buy the bread from the Beckers and talk with Frau Fuchs about more honey. Elise needed to learn to stand on her own. She wouldn’t always have Mama.
    The clatter of china went on in the other room. Warner Brennholtz shouted an impatient order to someone. Her door banged open and the chef stepped into her room. She had long since learned not to be surprised or offended when someone barged in. The heat of the kitchen made escape necessary, and her small bedroom was convenient. All day from breakfast through dinner, workers danced around one another, and someone would regularly slide in for a few minutes of cool respite before facing the stoves and ovens again. Only after the last customers had gone and the last dishes had been washed and put away did Marta have any privacy.
    Brennholtz stood taller than Papa and several stones heavier. He liked his beer, too, but became jolly when he overimbibed, rather than moody or violent like her father. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you ate bad Sauerkraut .” The chef wiped perspiration from his red face and neck.
    “My sister wasn’t able to finish housekeeping school.”
    “Is she ill?”
    “She’s fine, now that she’s home with our mother.”
    “Ah. Is she a good worker? She could come here and live in this room with you. We could use another dishwasher.”
    “You’d frighten her to death.” Brennholtz could shout louder than Papa. Even his laughter boomed enough to rattle crockery. Elise would probably break half the dishes before the end of her first week.
    “A pity Derry doesn’t need another maid.”
    “He would if he rented rooms to the English.”
    Warner wiped the towel over his thinning blond hair. “He did a few years ago, but the English and Germans are like oil and water, and Derry