"One thing is certain,—I have no business to grumble," she told herself cheerily. "It is all right, or it would be different; and if I am meant to be dull for a while, why, I just have to be dull, and to keep cheerful through it." Then she smiled at the opposition of ideas. "Mrs. Kirkpatrick would call that an Irishism. After all, it isn't outside things that make dulness. It just depends on what one is in oneself. I shall find interests—somehow. Perhaps by-and-by I shall even find that I can be of use to my father."
"And you had a nice party, I hope, Miss Tracy?" said Mrs. Stirring, curiosity getting the upper hand.
"Yes, very nice,—only it was not a party," Dorothea answered.
"There was folks to talk to, though, wasn't there? That's what you'd ought to have,—a young lady like you! Never going nowhere, nor seeing nobody,—it ain't natural. You do take it patient, and no mistake; but it ain't right, and if I was you, I'd tell your Pa, that I would!"
This little outburst, the culmination of much smothered pity, took Dorothea by surprise. She did not speak, and Mrs. Stirring went on—
"Gentlemen don't know what's fit for a young lady. If you had a Ma alive, it 'ud be a different life for you, Miss,—and I wish it was different, too."
"My father must decide for himself. That is only his business—and mine," Dorothea said with gentle decision.
Mrs. Stirring was silenced. She murmured something unintelligible, and no further words passed between them till the house was reached.
"I didn't mean to vex you, Miss," Mrs. Stirring said then, as she fumbled with her latch-key.
"I am not vexed. I quite understand. It is all right," Dorothea replied, with a smile.