When I was through she cried still harder, and said she'd lose her
place. She knew she would. I told her she wouldn't. I knew she wouldn't.
And after a while she sat up in bed and copied it. Some of her tears
blotted it, but I told her that didn't matter, and when I got up to go
she looked better already.
I knew how she felt. Like I did when my tooth that had to come out was
out. And a thing on your mind is worse than the toothache. One you can
tell, the other you can't. A thing you can't tell is like a spook that's
always behind you, and right in the bed with you when you wake up
sudden, and lies down with you every time you go to sleep. I know, for
that letter is on my mind.
When I got out of Miss Bray's room I ran in mine, Miss Katherine being
out, and locked the door, and I said:
"Mary Martha Cary, don't ever say again there's no such things as modern
miracles. There's been a miracle to-day, and you have seen it. Somebody
has been born over." And then, because I couldn't help it, I cried
almost as bad as Miss Bray.
But, oh, nobody can ever know how much harm it had done me to believe a
lady could go through life telling stories, and doing mean,
dishonorable things, and not minding. And people treating her just the
same as if she were honest!
When I found out it wasn't so--that your sin did make you suffer, and
that it did make a difference trying to do right--I felt some of my old
Martha-ry scornfulness slipping away. And I got down on my knees, no
words, but God understanding why.
I don't like any kind of bitterness in my heart. I'd rather like people.
But can you like a deceiver? You can't.
Dr. Parke Alden has taken no more notice of me than if I were a
Juney-bug.
I wonder if Miss Katherine will ever marry. She wasn't meant to live in
an Orphan Asylum. She was meant to be the Lady of the House, and to wear
beautiful clothes, and have horses and carriages and children of her
own, and to give orders. Instead of that, she is here; but sometimes she
has a look on her face which I call "Waiting." Last week I wrote a poem
about it. This is it:
"In the winter, by the fireside, when the snow falls soft and white,
I am waiting, hoping, longing, but for what I don't know quite.
And when summer's sunshine shimmers, and the birds sing clear and sweet,
I am waiting, always waiting, for the joy I hope to meet.
It will be, I think, my husband, and the home he'll make for me;
But of his coming or home-making, I as yet no signs do see.
But I still shall keep on waiting, for I know it's true as fate,
When you really, truly hustle, things will come if just you'll wait."
I don't think much of that. It sounds like "Dearest Willie, thou hast
left us, and thy loss we deeply feel." But I wasn't meant for a poet any
more than Miss Katherine for an old maid.
Dr. Parke Alden must be dead. Either that or he's no gentleman, or he
didn't get my letter. I wish I hadn't written it. I wish I hadn't let
him know I was living. But it was Miss Katherine I was thinking about.
Thank Heaven, I didn't mention her name! He isn't worth thinking about,
and I think of nothing else.