She picked some clove pinks and went over to the house of the children. It was a small cottage in vines fronting a back street. She went around to the sitting-room, where, by the window, sat a young girl with a poor little pinched-up face. A cane, gayly painted, and adorned with a flowing ribbon bow, leaned against the window, and told the girl’s story.
The room was very plain only about this corner. This nook had a bird cage and a hanging basket of ivy in the window; Mintie’s chair, with its gay cushion, stood on a Persian mat; there was a little window garden growing on the ledge; and on the elbow stand was a globe with gold fish, while opposite hung some pretty water colors. Mintie’s hair was tied back with a rose-pink bow, and her wrapper was a marvelous web of roses and posies. Altogether the endeavor to surround poor Mintie Morgan with brightness and beauty was very evident.
But Mintie herself looked peevish, and as if never anything in the world had been done for her. It was plain she was no nice, ideal invalid, but a girl whom to take care of would be a great trial.
She did smile, however, as she took Miss Chatty’s clove pinks. “You always bring enough, and plenty of grass and leaves, so that there is a chance to try a bouquet. I believe you do it that I may fuss with them half the forenoon if I like.”
Miss Chatty colored a trifle at being detected. “Well, that is nothing against me, I hope, Mintie. How do you feel to-day?”
“O, good-for-nothing, and all tired out just to think it is Monday morning instead of Saturday night.”
“I do wish you had something pleasant to occupy yourself with,” said Miss Chatty, sympathetically, instead of whipping out the little sermon on contentment. She had always thought she wouldn’t thank anybody to preach contentment to her, had she been broken-backed and with no feet to speak of, like Mintie.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Of course there isn’t,” said Mintie. “I want something pretty if I have anything, work which will make me forget I am in this chair. I won’t sew the children’s clothes. Father and mother should contrive that I was amused. And if you felt so very bad for me, Miss Chatty, I guess you would have offered to let me dress some of them dolls before now!”
“So I might, I should think myself,” said Miss Chatty, startled into saying a very unwise thing; for, of course, a ten-dollar doll wasn’t to be put in careless fingers.