“Perhaps so; but it seems different.”
“Ah, Anna,” said Miss Revere, “that seems is the old story of the palanquin again. Just as we seemed safer the other night, when we all huddled together in one room, in the thunder storm.”
“What an awful night that was!”
“And yet here we all are, safe. I never could have believed, years ago, when I was lying alone in a heavier night than that, that I should ever be sitting here tranquilly telling of it.”
“O, yes, do tell us the rest.”
“If I should tell you all, it would only be answering my own question, 'whether one could be happy after being left alone in the world by all whom she loved.' Little thing as I was then, I learned that there is no comfort from others, no diversion from a great calamity. Every thing that one clings to for help is only the sailor's block of ice, which is itself water. May you never know how utterly alone one is in a great sorrow; but if you ever should, may you find yourselves, as I did at last, taking root in the very ground on which you fall, and drawing a new life from the reality of your desolation. Thus I had to earn my own living; and you can judge if Clara's lot can seem a hard one to me, who have known so well what poverty is.”
“Why, Miss Revere, how can you speak of poverty? I thought you had every thing you wished,” exclaimed Effie.
“Dear child, I believe it is only those who have been unhappy, or in some way thrown out of their natural life, who can understand comparisons. We must all earn our own living in some way, and always in the way in which our life is different from all others.”
“I wish, Anna, you had not told about the sailor swimming to that awful ice. I do not see the use of thinking of such things before they happen. I am sure I shall never dare to go to sea,” said Kate.
“How did you feel, Fanny, when you were out in the boat, in the middle of the ocean?” asked Linda.