“Don’t I know it? But sorrow is like sickness and it can cloud the spirits as sickness weakens the body. But for being kept so busy by my wise relatives, I should have lost my mind altogether, I make no doubt. But they were a large family, and there was teasing and laughing and tricks going on as well as work, and that was my medicine. But even with all that, I was forever looking down the road, thinking one of those New York detectives would be bringing my little brother back to me. Whenever the letters came I sat frozen with hope that wouldn’t be hope, till they were given out. I kept thinking that one would be handed to me that would tell me David was found. But none ever was.”
“But you grew happier after a time,” protested Azalea, who could not long endure the thought of sorrow. “You must have! See how happy everything is with you now.”
“Yes,” admitted Mary Cecily, “I did grow happier after a time, though as I say, I didn’t really want to. But I got to be a young woman, and Bryan Rowantree came along. He was the younger son of a fine English family—Irish on his mother’s side, however—and he came over to America to better himself. He heard of my uncle’s little paper and looked him up, thinking he might be wanted to lend a hand, but my uncle liked to run things his own way, quietly and casually, as he used to put it. So he didn’t take the young man into partnership—but I did.”
She smiled down at Azalea happily, and the girl could see that whatever others might think, Rowantree’s wife could see nothing but the advantages of the marriage.
“I say he was young,” she went on. “He was, however, twelve years older than myself. But I have always been a poor thing and thankful to have some one to lean on.”
“Mercy me,” thought Azalea, “can it be she thinks she’s leaning on that man? I thought it was just the other way.” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground carefully, afraid that if she lifted them her thoughts would be read in her face.
“We had a sweet little wedding,” said Mary Cecily dreamily, “and then we came away together. We had no particular place to go to, but Bryan said he thought he would like to wander for a time. That suited me, too. But after a little we got tired of that. Besides, we saw that our money would soon give out. So, when we heard of this woodland up here for sale for almost nothing, we bought it. The Rowantrees were once great landed proprietors, but in recent years they had been obliged to live in cities, and it had not suited them. At least, it did not suit my husband. So here we are. We lead a very peaceful, retired life. Mr. Rowantree loves quiet, as he said to you. And I’ve the children if ever I feel the loneliness stealing on me.”
A call sounded through the woods.
“They think we’re lost,” smiled Mrs. Rowantree. “And we must be getting back to the house, but before we go I want you to promise me that you will not speak of my sorrow. It’s a queer way I have with me, not liking to see sympathy save in the eyes of my own chosen friends. Come now, and I hope and pray Miss Pace will not accuse me of rudeness!”
“Aunt Zillah? Never!” said Azalea. “It’s a wonderful story you’ve told me, Mrs. Rowantree—so sad I can hardly believe it—much sadder than mine, and that is sad enough. Not that I feel sad,” she added hastily. “Since I became a McBirney I’m a very happy girl.”