“Are you then so lame?” Rhoda asked with concern.
“Yes, I am rather used up by sprains and bruises, but it is nothing serious, after all, and only demands that I keep quiet.”
“Tell me about it,” Rhoda said abruptly, as she motioned Lettice to her place on the couch. And Lettice gave her a detailed account of her adventures, ending with, “And it was my very prettiest scarf, the silk one with many colored stripes that Uncle Tom brought me from Paris.”
“How can you think of such slight things when it was all so serious?” Rhoda asked, in a puzzled tone.
Lettice laughed. “Because I am so shallow, I suppose. I remember being thankful that I had that particular piece of finery, because it was so strong, and not like some of my others made of a lighter and more gauzy material. You see how I could let my thoughts run on dress, even in that desperate hour. I tell you I am only a butterfly.”
“But you are not. You weep like a baby over the smallest thing, when it is weak and silly to do so, and you prink and coquet and parade your dress, but at heart you are brave and loyal, and have the greatest amount of endurance. I cannot make you out.”
“No more can I you. I am a piece of vanity, and when there is anything to be gained by showing a brave front I can do it well enough; at other times I simply let myself go, and if I feel like crying I cry, when there is anybody around to pet me and make much of me, even if it is only Mammy.” Then she suddenly became grave. “Did you know that the papers were found? Or rather, they have been returned.”
Rhoda started. “You don’t mean it!”
“I do.”
“Who returned them?”