Under these circumstances she devoted herself to Owlet, and found some distraction from her sorrow in the society of that strange child.
She began to teach the little one to read and to sew, and gave two hours of the morning to this pleasant pastime. She found Owlet an apt and eager pupil. After the hours of tuition she would take her to walk over the plantation. She took her through those wonderful orchards, now in full blossom, that seemed to the child like forests of pink and white flowers. She showed her a pigeon box, with the young pair of pigeons in the nest, and she told her wonderful stories of the carriers.
Owlet enjoyed all this with more intense delight than any child reared among such scenes, or having a less sensitive nature, could have felt.
But through all her own pleasure Owlet perceived the deep trouble on the face of her benefactress, and responded to it for some days in silent sympathy.
At length, one morning, after she had said her lesson in spelling words of three letters, she suddenly demanded, while looking wistfully into the lady’s face:
“What is the matter with you?”
Roma looked surprised, then lifted the child to her lap and kissed her in grave silence.
“But what is the matter with you?” again inquired Owlet, with tender, persistent interest.
Still Roma did not answer, but gently caressed the little one. How, indeed, could she answer the question? She could not tell the facts, for the child could not understand them; nor could she use the formula for such cases made and provided, and say: “Nothing is the matter,” or “I have a headache,” for neither statement would be true, and Roma was too purely truthful to prevaricate.
“Have I hurted you? And are you too kind to scold me? Oh, you know I am very often naughty, and not respectful enough to people; but—but—that is only when—when I’m not possessed of common sense, you know. But, oh, I do love you! And I am so sorry if I hurted you!” Owlet exclaimed, clasping her benefactress around the neck.