“Indeed,” she added, “I am afraid it would only tease you to hear how much I am indebted to your decision and kindness—”
“Nay,” said Ethel, laughing her awkward laugh. “You have often had to forget my savage ways.”
“Pray don’t say that—”
“I think,” said Ethel, breaking in, “the philosophy is this: I believe that it is a trying life. I know teaching takes a great deal out of one; and loneliness may cause tendencies to dwell on fancied slights in trifles, that might otherwise be hurried over. But I think the thing is, to pass them over, and make a conscience of turning one’s mind to something fresh—”
“As you made me do, when you brought me amusing books, and taught me botany—”
“And, still more, when you took to working for the infant school. Yes, I think the way to be happy and useful is to get up many interests, so as to be fresh and vigorous, and think not at all of personalities. There’s a truism!”
“Very true, though,” said Miss Bracy. “Indeed, all your kindness and consideration would never have done me half the good they have, dear Miss Ethel, if you had not taught me that referring all to one’s own feelings and self is the way to be unhappy.”
“Just so,” said Ethel. “It is the surest way for any one to be miserable.”
“If I could only persuade poor dear Ellen to think that even if a slight were real, it ought to be borne forgivingly, and not brooded over. Ah! you are laughing; perhaps you have said the same about me.”
“You would forgive it now, I think,” said Ethel.