Mrs Dorothy let that part of the matter drop quietly.
“‘They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,’” she said, taking up her work again.
“What snare?” said Rhoda, bluntly.
“They get their hearts choked up,” said the old lady.
“With what, Mrs Dolly?”
“‘Cares, and riches, and pleasures of this life.’ O my dear, may the Lord make your heart soft! Yet I am afraid—I am very sore afraid, that the only way of making some hearts soft is—to break them.”
“Well, I don’t want my heart breaking, thank you,” laughed Rhoda; “and I don’t think anything would break it, unless I lost all my money, and was left an old maid. O Mrs Dolly, I can’t think how you bear it! To come down, now, and live in one of these little houses, and have people looking down on you, instead of looking up to you—if anything of the sort would kill me, I think that would.”
“Well, it hasn’t killed me, child,” said Mrs Dorothy, calmly; “but then, you see, I chose it. That makes a difference.”
“But you didn’t choose to be poor, Mrs Dolly?”
“Well, yes, in one sense, I did,” answered the old lady, a little tinge of colour rising in her pale cheek.