Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness,
To all duties of her rank.—Tennyson.
Catherine remained seated in the chair into which she had sunk, with her face buried in her open palms. Her favorite maid Henny, from the Hardbargain farm-house, was in attendance. Henny had cleared away the breakfast service, with the exception of the silver plate, which was collected upon a salver; and she stood by her mistress’s chair waiting, in respectful sympathy; at last she said—
“Miss Kate, honey, if you lend me the keys o’ the plate closet, I can put away the things safe, without your troublin’ o’ yourself.”
Catherine lifted her head languidly, and pushing away her drooping hair, exclaimed, quite unconsciously, and as if the words burst of themselves from her overburdened bosom—
“Oh! Henny, if you knew how little heart I have to do anything!”
“I does know it, mist’ess, deary; but you mus’ jes take a ’flection on to it, honey, an’ ’sider how it ain’t on’y marster, but mos’ in general all the gemmum in the neighborhood, as is gwine far the wars.”
Regretting that she had permitted a complaint to escape her lips, yet satisfied that her servant did not understand or suspect the true cause of her sorrow, Catherine arose, and said—
“Take up the salver and follow me, Henny. Idle grief is very fruitless. If we cannot keep our friends with us, it is better to prepare for their comfortable living while absent, than to sit down in useless sorrow.”
“An’ that’s the Lord’s trufe, Miss Kate,” said Henny lifting the laden salver on her head, and settling it steadily, “that’s Marster blessed trufe! ’Sides which, I has a heap to do myself, to get brother Jack’s duds ready, to go long o’ Marse Archy.”