“Don’t let them be strangers after this, dear lady; when you send them away, as I did once, it is like turning angels out of doors.” Catharine sobbed for the first time in years and years.
“When they come swarming around your heart,” continued Mary, “let them in, for they are pleasant company, and, better than all, crowd so much trouble out.”
“Alas!” said Catharine, covering her face with both hands in a burst of sorrow, “it is long since these thoughts have visited me.”
“That is because you keep the door shut against them, I dare say; but it is open now, or you would not cry so; gentle thoughts always follow tears, just as violets start after a brook overflows.”
Catharine stooped forward with one hand to her brow; she could not realize that tears were dropping so fast from her eyes, or that any human voice possessed the power of unlocking such feelings of tenderness in her soul. She who had become iron, scarcely recognized her own identity when the old nature came back. Mary grew anxious at her long silence.
“Have I offended you, lady?” she said, pressing her timid little hand on that which lay in Catharine’s lap.
“Offended me! Oh, no, no.”
“Please look up then; while you stoop, the shadows fall around you like a mourning cloak, and I grow chilly; hark! what is that?”
Catharine Montour started up, for a low cry like that of some wild animal in pain sounded from the water. “It is my Indians,” she said, hurriedly; “they are restive at this long stay—I must go now or they will come in search of me.”
“But not far—not forever, lady; I have only seen you twice in all my life; but it seems as if a stone had fallen on my heart when I think that you may never come back.”