“Very little. I was then a humble sister, and had little, intercourse with any ladies who might occasionally visit us. But I remember her coming, one day, with her children—three! girls—one who ran about the garden, and two modest, blushing girls, who accepted some of our flowers.”
“I must have been the little one who ran about, and the others were my poor sisters. Well, all these, besides my papa, were always about grandpapa; and he never wanted amusement or waiting on. Since that dreadful time, he has had only me; and now, in his old age, when he has no strength, and nothing to do, he is going to be all alone! Oh, madam, I think it is wicked to leave him! Had anybody ever a clearer duty than I have—to stay with him?”
“You would be quite right if it was anybody but himself that desired you to leave him. Your first duty, my dear, is to obey his wishes.”
“I shall never be able to learn my lessons, for thinking of him, sitting alone there—or perhaps lying in bed, because there is nothing to get up for.”
“Now you are presumptuous. You are counting upon what may never happen, and fearing to leave your parent in the hand of Him who gave you to him. Suppose you were to die to-night, I fear you could not trust him in the hands of Him who wraps us round with old age, before taking us home to Himself.”
“Oh, yes, I could so trust him to-night, if I myself had watched him to sleep. But a month hence, if I were to die, I should dread to meet my parents. They would ask me, ‘How is our father?’ and I should have to answer, ‘I do not know—I have left him—I have done nothing for him of late.’ The whole time that I am here, madam, I shall be afraid to die and meet my mother.”
“We must lead you to doubt your own notions, and to trust more in God,” said the lady, gently. “We know not what a day may bring forth; and as you grow older, you will find how, in cases of hard and doubtful duty, our way becomes suddenly clear, so as to make us ashamed of our late anguish. Father Gabriel will tell you that one night he lost his way among the marshes in the plain. The clouds hung thick and low overhead, and there was not a ray of light. He plunged on the one hand into the marsh; and on the other, the reeds grew higher than his head. Behind him was a wood that he had hardly managed to struggle through; and he knew not what might be before him. He groped about for a firm place to stand on, and had no idea which way to move. At last, without his having felt a breath of wind, he found that the clouds had parted to the right, making a chink through which he saw the Cibao peaks standing up against a starlight sky; and, to the left, there was, on the horizon, a dim white line which he could not understand, till the crescent moon dropped down from behind the cloudy canopy, across a bar of clear sky, and into the sea. This made him look whether the church of Saint Hilaire was not close by. He made out its dim mass through the darkness, and in a few minutes stood in the porch. So, my child, is our way (even yours, young as you are) sometimes made too dark for our feeble eyes; and thus, from one quarter or another, is a ray permitted to fall that we may not be lost.”
“Thank you,” said Euphrosyne, softly. “May I come to-morrow?”
“At any hour you shall be welcome, my dear.”
“If you will appoint me something to do every morning in the garden, madam, grandpapa might sit in the balcony, to see me, and talk to me. That will be a reason for his getting up. That, will prevent his lying too long, for want of something to do.”