And she had a limitless fortitude. She was not a fighter; she was not one to struggle for what she desired; her strength was in her terrible resignation, her fatalistic endurance. She would weep—she was weeping now—for this probable lover whom she had lost, but there was no rebellion in her grief. From her very early days she had learned to look upon life as a sad and ironic affair, from which one could expect little.
“Ah, that’s the way of the world!” her mother would say, but always of some disaster.
And it was no doubt the way of the world that this had happened.
III
When Friday came she didn’t go to Miss Waters’. She had not intended to tell Miss Amy she wasn’t going, but to her dismay Miss Amy suddenly returned at noon, and found her playing on the piano, one of the babyish pieces of her small repertory, taught her by Miss Julie: “The Brownies’ Ball.” Small consolation in that sprightly little tune for a suffering heart, but it was all the music she could make, and she needed music.
“What are you doing at home?” asked Miss Amy. “Isn’t it your day for going to Miss Waters’?”
“I don’t feel well,” said Rosaleen. “I have a headache.”
“Then you’d better lie down, instead of sitting drumming on the piano.”
“I feel better when I’m sitting up, Miss Amy.”
“I dare say you’re bilious. Put on your things and go take a good brisk walk.”