"Are we really?" I said. "I am so glad."
And sweet Mary grew red too, when I said that. "I'm very glad you're
glad," she said, shyly. "Of course _I_ would like to be like you."
And I think that afternoon sealed our friendship. How happy we were!
We explored all the garden together, making plans for all sorts of nice
things, out-of-door teas, games of hide-and-seek, gardening and
flower-shows (I will tell you about our flower-shows some other time--
they were such fun), when the summer came; then we went into the house
and explored it too, spending most of our time in the girls' room, the
room with the rose paper, where the two little white beds were standing
side by side and everything as neat as could be, though to my eyes,
accustomed to much more luxury, it looked rather bare. But Evey was
full of her plans for dressing up the toilet-table and adorning the
windows with blinds and ribbons to match.
"I've been waiting for you to come to talk about it with us," she said.
"Connie has such good taste," she went on to Mary; "you know she chose
this paper."
And though I had always fancied and had even, I fear, been rather proud
of saying that I hated needlework, I found myself undertaking a share in
it all, quite cheerfully.
"You'll join our poor work, won't you, Connie?" said Evey; "unless, of
course, you've got a club of your own already."
And when I stared, she went on to explain that, busy as they were,
busier still as their mother was, they all gave a certain amount of time
regularly every week to sewing for the poor.
"You wouldn't believe how much one can do if one keeps to it," said
Evey. "And you know things that are neatly made are so much more good
to poor people than what one can buy. Once we had quite a proper club,
and twice a year we had a shop--it was such fun. Mother says it is best
to let them buy the things when they can, though we always gave away
_some_. I wonder if we can have a club here."
"There is a sort of one I think," I said. "Anna Gale and her aunt
manage it. But I'm sure it is stupidly done. They are so dull and
stupid about everything."
Evey glanced up quickly.
"Mother is so clever about things like that," she said. "Perhaps
something might be done about it. I daresay she would talk about it to
Miss Gale. There are a good many new ideas about such things now, and
perhaps--perhaps it is a little old-fashioned here, and mother might
improve it. I think Anna Gale must be a very good girl."
"Oh, yes," I said contemptuously; "she's _good_ enough." Again Evey's
quick little glance. I didn't quite like it.
"Evey," I said, "you needn't look at me that way. I know it's wrong to
say unkind things of people, but when any one _is_ very dull and stupid,
you can't say they're interesting and clever."
"I don't think you needed to say anything. I wasn't asking you about
what the Gales were," said Evey, in her rather blunt way. "I don't mean
to be rude or laying down the law, Connie, only--"
"Mother says," Mary interrupted in her shy way--"mother says it is
always so very easy to find fault and to see the worst of people. It
takes much more cleverness trying to see the best of them."
I had begun to feel rather angry, but Mary's words made me think a
little.
"Well," I said, "I daresay that's true. But, I don't like Anna Gale, I
suppose, and I daresay I've never tried to. Do you think that's wrong?
You can't like everybody the same."
"No," said Evey, "not the same. That's just the difference. But
there's _something_ to like in nearly everybody. And I think we should
try to see that part of them most. But, _of course_, you don't need to
like everybody the same; that would do away with friends and friendship.
One thing I do like you for, Connie, is that you're frank and honest."