The words might hold a simple direct interpretation for Mrs. Mulholland that could never be Rosamund’s, but their truth was destined to abide with her in an ever expanding certainty.
“You are very, very kind to me,” she said wistfully; “everyone is.”
“You’re one of us, as Sister Frances Mary’s sister. The convent tie is a very real one, you know, though people in the world like to think it’s not. But you have a number of friends, my dear, outside, as well as here. I have a lot of letters for you, only Mother Juliana suggested that you might be better without them just at first. Would you like them now?”
Rosamund took the little sheaf gently.
The writers seemed strangely remote to her, but she read with a faint stirring of gratitude her guardian’s long letter.
Bertha offered to come to her, would have done so instantly, but for the illness of Cousin Frederick, who, they terribly feared, was threatened with pneumonia.
“But come to me as soon as you are able to, dearest child. I feel torn in two, as you can imagine, and only wish I could be in both places at once. If poor Minnie would be of any comfort, telegraph to me and I’ll send her. I can easily manage the sitting up at nights for a time; anyhow, if this is going to be the long illness the doctor fears, we shall have to get a trained nurse. Remember there’s home waiting for you, my Rosamund, and an old woman who’s been through a good deal herself one way and another, and only longs to help and comfort you. One finds out, as one goes along, that nothing matters except to lend a hand.”
“I ought to go back,” said Rosamund. “I am quite well now. But I don’t know what my life is going to be. Porthlew doesn’t seem to be right for me, somehow. It never did—and I thought that Francie and I would go back to the Wye Valley together. The cottage is ours.”
“Now don’t look too far ahead,” urged Mrs. Mulholland. “One step at a time, is what I always say.
“‘Lord, for to-morrow and its needs I do not pray,