As Lassie closed the door, Alva moved to her favorite post by the window and stood there looking out; the young girl looked anxiously towards her friend. "What happens to those people doesn't really matter to us, does it?" she asked after a minute, some atmosphere of trouble permeating her.
"Everything matters, dear."
"But, Alva, you hardly know them, and they are common."
"Perhaps so, dear, but that room,—two weeks in that room with nothing, no comforts such as we think absolutely essential—oh, it makes me feel terribly. Life is such a puzzle. Ledge seemed such a simple-hearted, secluded little nook,—and first I ran into the big, soul-wringing problem of the dam, and now here are these two lives. Lassie, whatever else they may or may not be, they are human. It can't be joy to live like that. There must be some reason for their doing as they do, and I can see no reason except the one the girl told me."
Lassie began to wash and brush for dinner; Alva continued to stand at the window.
"That was the first time that I ever went into a room where I was possibly not wanted," she continued, presently. "It seemed so strange. And such a room, too. Oh, it all has made me fairly heart-sick. I wonder what the end is to be. As I say so often, there are no accidents, no chance happenings in life; if anything enters within my circle, there is a reason for it. Either they are to do for me, or I am to do for them, and I wish I knew which it were to be. I am so sorry for them!"
"Then you don't think that they can be doing wrong—are perhaps bad?"
"No," said Alva, firmly; "I'll never think that of any one. Nobody is ever bad. The word is too complete. It says more than it means to express."
"They couldn't be going to do anything for you."
"How can you tell, Lassie? Sometimes in doing for others we do a thousand times more for ourselves. Haven't you learned that yet?"