“Life is our comrade,” he said, “but death is our mother, holding out kind hands to us when we are tired.”
When he left me he—he kissed me, Carin. On the forehead. I shall always remember.
I did not leave my room the next day. I wanted to think. Old Semmy stayed with me. But I did not mind her. I like old Semmy. She rocks to and fro like the trees and seems to be waiting to give comfort when comfort is needed. And that is like trees, too. After my little mama died I used to wrap my arms about the trees up there on the mountain-side and weep and weep, and they were very kind to me—those great chestnuts and hemlocks. But now I am thinking out many things. I couldn’t have written to anyone save you. But soon I shall write dear Mother McBirney and Annie Laurie. (I have, of course, sent them word.)
Carin, tell me if you love me.
Azalea.
Mallowbanks, January 30th.
Oh, Carin-girl:
Other troubles have come to me—things I never dreamed of. I don’t know how to meet them. They aren’t things like death, that just have to be accepted with courage. No, they are things I have to decide about. I have to make up my mind what is right and what is wrong. I never knew before that it could be hard to do that.
This is the story: Two days after dear little grandmother was buried, I was told that the family solicitor would be at the house at three in the afternoon and that the will would be read, and I was expected to be present. So I put on one of the new black dresses that tell their own story, and when the time came I went down to the library. Uncle and auntie were there before me, and they introduced me to Mr. Lindsay, and then when the servants had come, he read grandmother’s will.
She was a rich woman, of course, but I had not guessed how rich, and she gave bequests to Martha and James which would make it unnecessary for them to work any more, with substantial remembrances to the other servants, and a fine sum to the college her sons attended, and then all of the rest she divided between Uncle David and me.