Betsy dropped her work and regarded the speaker.
“Miss Lavinia Frost,—I know her well. She don’t seem to wear spectacles, but she’s got a pair on all the time. Rose-color. Mrs. Bruce went out to her rooms once and she didn’t like the looks of ’em, and she took one of her notions and fixed ’em up with a handsome stove, and an arm-chair, and some other nice things, and Miss Frost never could get over it.”
“Mrs. Bruce is going to keep her with her.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Betsy. “Nothin’ could be better.” She shook her head and resumed her work. “Here’s hopin’ Miss Frost’ll never lose those magnifyin’ spectacles!”
“You never saw any one admire another more sincerely. Why, she takes it for granted that Mrs. Bruce made me, and is in love with her work.”
Betsy dropped her hands.
“‘God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform!’”
she declared. “Rosalie,” she added gently, “I wouldn’t wonder one mite if Lavinia Frost livin’ with Mrs. Bruce would be the makin’ o’ her. What do we all want? We want love. Mrs. Bruce hasn’t drawn it to herself from the folks that’s lived closest to her. She’s had some sharp lessons, from what Mr. Irving says, and now, when the plough’s gone deep, and the soil’s softer, this cheerful little lover may be takin’ her just at the right time, and will make a big difference in her.”
“Why, I seem to see it begin,” returned Rosalie. “She’s so much more gentle, and Miss Frost chirps and twitters around her, and waits on her—”