“Well, we ought to feel that, I suppose, being Christians.”
“And some day we shall see the meaning of all our troubles,” pursued Sister Cecilia. “It is so hard for us older ones, who have passed through it, to stand by helpless, only guessing at the pain and anguish of it all, whereas, perhaps, we could help if we only knew. A little more candour, a little more confidence might so easily lead to mutual help and consolation.”
“Possibly,” admitted Dora, without any encouragement.
“I am so sorry for poor Arthur!” whispered Sister Cecilia, apparently to the evening shades.
Dora was silent. She knew how to treat Sister Cecilia. Jem had taught her that.
“It has been such a terrible blow. His letters to his mother are quite heartbroken.”
Dora reserved her opinion of grown-up men who write heartbroken letters to their mothers.
“I know all about it,” Sister Cecilia went on, quite regardless of the truth, as some good people are. “Dora, dear, I know all about it.”
Silence, a silence which reminded Sister Cecilia of a sense of discomfiture which had more than once been hers in conversation with Jem.
“Have you nothing to tell me, dear?” she inquired. “Nothing to say to me?”