“No, Sir, I humbly thank you.”
“Then,” says he, “Something else has happened to grieve thee, for thine Eyes are red with weeping. What is it?”
But I could not tell him.
“Well,” said he, after a Pause, “young Girls may have their Griefs that they don’t care to tell about.—Man is born to Trouble, as the Sparks fly upward. And sometimes those Griefs we show least, we feel most. But remember, my good Girl, (for a good Girl, Cherry, thou art!) that there is One to whom we may always carry our Burthens; One who can ease them, too, either by giving us Strength to bear them, or by removing them altogether.—Go pray, my Child, go pray!”
And I did as he bade me, and found Balm for a bleeding Heart. He was a good and wise Man, was Master Blower.
When my Mother awoke, she said, “Cherry, I don’t know what has come over me, but I feel a Peace and a Quiet past expressing ... I should not wonder if you have been praying for me, my Child.”
I pressed her Hand and said, “Yes, Mother, I have ... and for myself too.”
“This Illness of mine may be a Blessing in Disguise to us both,” said she after a Pause—“it has taught me your Value, Cherry.”
“What a funny Story,” resumed she presently, quietly smiling, “might be written by a clever Hand about a Person who always fancied herself undervalued! ‘The Undervalued Woman!’—There are a good many such in the World, I fancy; poor Things, it seems no Joke to them. People who have that Impression of themselves generally take such silly Methods to prevent their being overlooked! They had better make themselves of real Importance, by being useful and thoughtful for others. They had better take Pattern by you, Cherry!”
How dear, a Mother’s Praise! Especially when so seldom bestowed!