“I’ve never seen any signs of it,” returned Betsy dryly.
“There are moments when I wish I had borne with Loomis. One of them was when Mr. Derwent said he had known my father; and Mrs. Nixon looked at me from such a lofty height!” The girl’s cheeks burned again.
Betsy heaved a quiet sigh. “There’s only one thing the matter with you, Rosalie.” As she spoke, Betsy ran her fingers down the girl’s backbone, and the latter squirmed away. “It’s your spine.”
“What’s the matter with it?” asked Rosalie, startled.
“I don’t know; but ’tain’t stiff enough.” Betsy smiled faintly into her companion’s puzzled face. “Seems sort o’ tough to be born a vine, and then not be given a thing to cling to.” She shook her head. “You was born a vine, Rosalie, and now that the supports have been pulled out, you can either trail along the ground where every passer-by is likely to step on you, or you can reach around till you find a new support for yourself.”
She paused, and Rosalie looked troubled and thoughtful.
“Vines ain’t left altogether helpless,” went on Betsy. “They’re given lots o’ tendrils, and they lay hold o’ the queerest and most unpromising things sometimes and begin to pull themselves up.”
“But who wants to be a parasite!” exclaimed Rosalie. “They destroy!”
“A wholesome vine only benefits,” answered the other; “and it mustn’t be content with shrinkin’ along the ground and invitin’ everybody to step on it, and hurt it. Even a vine has its own sort of backbone, its own power, and it hasn’t a thing to fear. It’ll find its place to climb if it looks up and not down.”