Mittie jerked away from the hand laid upon her with no velvet pressure, without opening her lips, but the guilty blood rising to her face spoke eloquently; though she had a kind of Procrustes bed of her own, according to which she stretched or curtailed the truth, she had not the hardihood to tell an unmitigated falsehood, in the presence of her brother, too, and in the light of his truth-beaming eye.
“You are always accusing me of every thing,” said she, at length. “I didn’t do it——all;” the last syllable was uttered in a low, indistinct tone.
“You are a mean coward,” cried the spinster, hurling the ball across the room with such force that it rebounded against the wall. “You’re a coward with all your audacity, and do tricks you are ashamed to acknowledge. You’ve spoiled the honest earnings of the whole winter, and destroyed the beautifullest suit of thread that ever was spun by mortal woman.”
“I can pay you for all I spoiled and more too,” said Mittie, sullenly.
“Pay me,” repeated Miss Thusa, while the scorching fire of her eye slowly went out, leaving an expression of profound sorrow. “Can you pay me for a value you can’t even dream of? Can you pay me for the lonely thoughts that twisted themselves up with that thread, day after day, and night after night, because they had nothing else to take hold of? Can you pay me for these grooves in my fingers’ ends, made by the flax as I kept drawing it through, till it often turned red with my blood? No, no, that thread was as dear to me as my own heart strings—for they were twined all about it; it was like something living to me—and I loved it in the same way as I do little Helen. I shall never, never spin any more.”
“You will spin more merrily than ever,” cried Louis, soothingly, “you see if you don’t, Miss Thusa.”
Miss Thusa shook her head, and though she almost suffocated herself in the effort to repress them, tears actually forced themselves into her eyes, and splashed on her cheeks. Seating herself in a low chair, she took up the corner of her apron to hide what she considered a shame and disgrace, when Helen glided near and wiped away the drops with her own handkerchief.
“Bless you darling,” cried the subdued spinster—“and you will be blessed. There’s no malice, nor hard-heartedness in you. You never turned your foot upon a worm. But as for her,” continued she, pointing prophetically at Mittie, and fixing upon her her grave and gloomy eyes—“there’s no blessing in store. She don’t feel now, but if she lives to womanhood she will. The heart of stone will turn to flesh then, and every fibre it has got will learn how to quiver, as I’ve seen twisted wire do, when strong fingers pull it—I know it will. She will shed tears one of these days, and no one will wipe them off, as this little angel has done for me. I’ve done, now. I didn’t mean to say what I did, but the Lord put it in my head, and I’ve spoken according to my gift.”
Mittie ran out of the room before the conclusion of the speech, unable to stand the moveless glance, that seemed to burn like heated metal into her conscience.
“Come, Miss Thusa,” said Louis, amiably, desirous of turning her thoughts into a new channel, and pitying while he blamed his offending sister, for the humiliation he knew she must endure—“come and tell us a story, while you are inspired. It is so long since I have heard one! Let it be something new and exciting.”