The old woman toiled heavily up the narrow stairs that led to the infirmary, and spent the spring afternoons sitting by the window in the tiny room, with her work held close to her spectacles, while she talked with her odd matter-of-fact piety to Rosamund, or listened to her few replies and questions.
One day she brought her some flowers, and Rosamund sobbed and cried over them, and tried to tell Mrs. Mulholland why, and could not.
“Now, my poor dear child, don’t try to talk about it. The fact is you’re still very weak, and the least thing oversets you. But you must remember that your dear little sister has much better flowers to look at where she is now than any this poor old earth can offer. Eye hath not seen——” said Mrs. Mulholland, shaking her head. “I often think if this earth is so beautiful with flowers and everything, why, what must Heaven be?”
Rosamund looked at her.
“Violets all the year round, most probably,” pursued the old lady cheerfully, “though, to be sure, it’s absurd to talk of all the year round in eternity—but one always thinks of it as being spring or summer in Heaven. But whatever it is, my dear, you may depend upon it that your sister is seeing all the wonderful things that have been promised to those who forsake everything for God.”
“Can she be happy if she knows that I am still here?” asked Rosamund wistfully.
“Happy in the Will of God. And I am sure that time seems only a flash to her, though to us it feels so long, and then you’ll be with her and can enjoy it all together. And then, you know, it will be for eternity, and there will be no more parting,” said Mrs. Mulholland earnestly.
“It will be just like it used to be, and all the years in between will be forgotten,” sobbed Rosamund.
“That’s it, my dear. Now doesn’t the thought of that meeting give you courage?”
“Perhaps. It isn’t as real to me as it is to you.”