Sunday.—It is pleasant again, now, and
I am happy; but those were heavy days; I do not think
of them when I can help it.
I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot
learn to throw straight. I failed, but I think
the good intention pleased him. They are forbidden,
and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to
harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that
harm?
Monday.—This morning I told him my
name, hoping it would interest him. But he did
not care for it. It is strange. If he should
tell me his name, I would care. I think it would
be pleasanter in my ears than any other sound.
He talks very little. Perhaps it is because
he is not bright, and is sensitive about it and wishes
to conceal it. It is such a pity that he should
feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart
that the values lie. I wish I could make him
understand that a loving good heart is riches, and
riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty.
Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable
vocabulary. This morning he used a surprisingly
good word. He evidently recognized, himself,
that it was a good one, for he worked in in twice afterward,
casually. It was good casual art, still it showed
that he possesses a certain quality of perception.
Without a doubt that seed can be made to grow, if
cultivated.
Where did he get that word? I do not think I
have ever used it.
No, he took no interest in my name. I tried
to hide my disappointment, but I suppose I did not
succeed. I went away and sat on the moss-bank
with my feet in the water. It is where I go when
I hunger for companionship, some one to look at, some
one to talk to. It is not enough—that
lovely white body painted there in the pool—but
it is something, and something is better than utter
loneliness. It talks when I talk; it is sad when
I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; it says,
“Do not be downhearted, you poor friendless girl;
I will be your friend.” It is a good
friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.
That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never
forget that —never, never. My heart
was lead in my body! I said, “She was all
I had, and now she is gone!” In my despair
I said, “Break, my heart; I cannot bear my life
any more!” and hid my face in my hands, and there
was no solace for me. And when I took them away,
after a little, there she was again, white and shining
and beautiful, and I sprang into her arms!
That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness
before, but it was not like this, which was ecstasy.
I never doubted her afterward. Sometimes she
stayed away—maybe an hour, maybe almost
the whole day, but I waited and did not doubt; I said,
“She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but
she will come.” And it was so: she
always did. At night she would not come if it
was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if
there was a moon she would come. I am not afraid
of the dark, but she is younger than I am; she was
born after I was. Many and many are the visits
I have paid her; she is my comfort and my refuge when
my life is hard—and it is mainly that.
