Fleda could but cry.
“And yet,” said he very kindly,—“we
who are Christians may and ought to learn to take
troubles hopefully; for ’tribulation worketh
patience; and patience,’ that is, quiet waiting
on God, ‘works experience’ of his goodness
and faithfulness; ’and experience worketh hope;
and that hope, we know, ‘maketh not ashamed.’”
“I know it,” said Fleda;—“but,
Mr. Olmney, how easily the brunt of a new affliction
breaks down all that chain of reasoning!”
“Yes!—” he said sadly and thoughtfully;—“but
my dear Miss Fleda, you know the way to build it up
again. I would be very glad to bear all need
for it away from you!”
They had reached the gate. Fleda could not look
up to thank him; the hand she held out was grasped,
more than kindly, and he turned away.
Fleda’s tears came hot again as she went up
the walk; she held her head down to hide them and
went round the back way.
Now, the melancholy god protect thee;
and the tailor make thy doublet of
changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a
very opal!—Twelfth Night.
“Well what did you come home for?” was
Barby’s salutation;—“here’s
company been waiting for you till they’re tired,
and I am sure I be.”
“Company!!—” said Fleda.
“Yes, and it’s ungrateful in you to say
so,” said Barby, “for she’s been
in a wonderful hurry to see you,—or to get
somethin’ to eat; I don’t know which;
a little o’ both, I hope in charity.”
“Why didn’t you give her something to
eat? Who is it?”
“I don’t know who it is! It’s
one of your highfliers, that’s all I can make
out. She ’a’n’t a hat a bit
better than a man’s beaver,—one ’ud
think she had stole her little brother’s for
a spree, if the rest of her was like common folks;
but she’s got a tail to her dress as long as
from here to Queechy Run; and she’s been tiddling
in and out here with it puckered up under her arm
sixty times. I guess she belongs to some company
of female militie, for the body of it is all thick
with braid and buttons. I believe she ha’n’t
sot still five minutes since she come into the house,
till I don’t know whether I am on my head or
my heels.”
“But why didn’t you give her something
to eat?” said Fleda, who was hastily throwing
off her gloves and smoothing her disordered hair with
her hands into something of composure.
“Did!” said Barby;—“I
give her some o’ them cold biscuit and butter
and cheese and a pitcher of milk—sot a
good enough meal for anybody—but she didn’t
take but a crumb, and she turned up her nose at that.
Come, go!—you’ve slicked up enough—you’re
handsome enough to shew yourself to her any time o’
day, for all her jig-em-bobs.”
“Where is aunt Lucy?”
“She’s up stairs;—there’s
been nobody to see to her but me. She’s
had the hull lower part of the house to herself, kitchen
and all, and she’s done nothing but go out of
one room into another ever since she come. She’ll
be in here again directly if you ain’t spry.”
