“I was only thinking,” replied Mrs. Mason, “that the world seems to open a vista of enjoyment for you which many apparently more fortunate would give half their years to possess. What is the secret of your happiness?”
“‘Secret?’ I have none, unless it is that I am still a child, in heart at least, and accept life as unquestioningly.”
“But by and by the heart of the child will have grown old, and you will be like the rest of us, tired, disappointed, doubting.”
There was a note of sadness in Mrs. Mason’s voice that appealed at once to Elsie’s tender sympathies. Involuntarily she reached out a hand as if to lay it upon the white jewelled one of her mistress; but with a sudden start of recollection she drew back and said simply: “There is so much in this world to hope for, so much that may be had even by the poorest, that disappointment and doubt need affect one only as externals. I hope I may never grow wise if wisdom brings only bitterness of spirit.”
Mrs. Mason made no reply; she was watching the fine mobile face before her, with its blending of pride and guilelessness. “The girl gains on one so,” she mused, “that I could almost make her friend instead of servant, if it were not for——”
At this juncture Elsie, uneasy under the prolonged scrutiny of the gray eyes, asked hesitatingly: “Do you wish anything further, Mrs. Mason? May I go now?”
“You might have gone some time since,” was the calm reply, given with all the iciness of manner she knew so well how to apply to the impulsive girl.
Elsie’s face flushed painfully as she left the room. Mrs. Mason smiled grimly as she saw it. “I treat that girl horribly sometimes; but it is the only way I can preserve the proprieties.”
The next evening, when everything had been put to rights in the kitchen, Elsie and Jenie, the little maid of the scullery, climbed the back stairs with many a ripple of laughter. They were deeply engaged in the all-important subject of dress, and were as keen in their enjoyment of the good points of attire as many a society belle who would grace the Mason parlors.
“Oh, but you are just lovely,” exclaimed enraptured Jenie as Elsie invested herself in a cheap lawn of rose pink, and fastened a coquettish lace cap above her curls in place of the frilled muslin of every day. The dress was as straight and plain as that of a Puritan maid; but the soft lace of a Martha Washington fichu and a jaunty lace-trimmed apron with pink bows on the pockets, created a costume that only needed the dark eyes and tinted cheeks of the wearer to complete it.