Poppy sat silent, thinking how great must be a nature that could be pounded in the mortar of life, and come out with nothing but a few beautiful marks on the face. Further, her thought was that if Mary Capron knew Clem's sorrows, Clem must love her very much indeed, and she must be worthy of that love.
She determined that she would never again allow herself to feel jealous of the bond of friendship existing between the two women. Mary Capron spoke again in a very low voice.
"What I am terribly afraid is that her suffering is not over, but only beginning."
Poppy stared at her startled, and saw that the beautiful brown eyes were filled with tears.
"Sorrow has her elect!" said the girl gently. "Dear Mrs. Capron, do not let your sympathy for Clem beguile you into telling me anything that she would not wish me to know; I believe you have her confidence. I wish I had too. But I would rather not hear anything ... of her inward life ... from anyone but herself." Poppy began falteringly, but she ended firmly, for she was convinced that she was right. She had laid her whole life bare to Clem, and if Clem had wished to give her confidence in return, she had had endless opportunities to do so in their intimate talks. She felt that she was right in stopping Mrs. Capron from saying anything further. But already Mrs. Capron had gone further.
"Once I have seen her in the ashes of misery and despair. I would rather die than witness it again."
Poppy sat up and rested her hand on those of the trembling, troubled woman before her.
"Don't," she said soothingly; "don't fret—Clem is brave and strong enough to fight every imaginable trouble in the world; and don't say anything more; I'm sure she would not wish it."
"But I must ... I must tell you.... She is going to suffer again—terribly ... and I want to save her if I can, and I want you to save her."
"Me!" faltered Poppy, listening in spite of herself. "What can I do?"