‘Surely,’ she said gently. ‘“Every flower has its story, and every butterfly’s life is a poem.”’
Belle broke the silence.
‘We heard you singing, my lady; I do not think Pauline had thought you would have the heart to sing.’
A ripple of the sweetest laughter Pauline had ever heard fell through the quiet room, and Tryphosa’s eyes flashed merrily.
‘“The pilgrims kept on their journey, and as they journeyed they sang,”’ she said. ‘Do you think there is anything to cry about when we are on our way to a palace, dear child? But Sunday is always my resting time,’ she continued, ‘I do not sing as much through the week as I should. I am tired often, and busy.’
‘Busy,’ echoed Pauline involuntarily, with a glance at the frail body propped up among the cushions.
Tryphosa gave another soft, merry laugh, and drew forward a rosewood writing-table, which was fitted to her couch.
‘Here is where I do my work, when my hands are willing; and then there are my dear poor people, and my rich friends, and sometimes the latter need as much comforting as the former. Oh, there is a great deal to do, dear child, for some have to be taught the way to the palace, and some have to be brought into audience with the King,’ her voice hushed itself into a reverent whisper.
‘And how about the pain, my lady?’ asked Belle. Pauline’s eyes were full of tears.
‘Just right,’ she answered brightly. ‘Some days are set in minor key, and the Lord calls me where the waves run high; but so long as I am sure it is the Lord, what does it matter? Not one good thing has failed of all that He has promised, and soldiers do not mind a few sword thrusts when they are marching to victory. “This day the noise of battle, the next the victor’s song.” She closed her eyes and a triumphant smile played about her mouth.