"I hope you have never known how I feel," exclaimed the girl, turning two tragic eyes slowly on her companion. "I feel—oh, why didn't I die?" and she burst into tears.
"I am so sorry for you, you poor dear child." Mrs. Lepell took her hand tightly in her own; "I know it is all so very new and strange."
"And it can never be otherwise," sobbed Verona. "I have come out too late ever to be one of them. It were really better if I were dead."
"My dear, don't say such things!"
"Not to every one, Mrs. Lepell, but you have been so kind to me, and you look sympathetic. It is a relief to me to say aloud what my brain keeps repeating all day and sometimes all night, 'I wish I were dead.'"
"Why?"
"Because I have no real home, here or anywhere; I am an outsider—an intruder—and oh! I was so anxious to come! My grandmother is right when she says I am like the dhoby's donkey, for I belong neither to the house nor the river."
How nearly she belonged to the river! Did she remember? Mrs. Lepell wondered.
"And there are other things."
"Yes; but now listen to me, Verona—of course I shall call you Verona; there are other things. You are only twenty-two, with all your best years before you; you have been well educated; you have enjoyed all the advantages of wealth and mixed in the world; you have the use of your faculties; you have a certain amount of brains and beauty. All these other things you actually possess. It is the act of a coward to throw down her arms when she meets with a reverse, and cry, 'I want to die! I am tired of life.' And life is so interesting, even to me, Verona, who am old enough to be your mother. I wish to live, and see it all—and what will happen."