Sister Cecilia assented with a resigned nod worthy of the very earliest martyr.
“Then, as every one has discovered so many virtues in him—quite suddenly—we had better emulate one of them, and have at the least the good feeling to hold our tongues about any feelings he may have entertained. Do you not think so, Sister Cecilia?”
“Well, dear, I only thought to act as might be best for you,” said the well-intentioned meddler, with the drawl of the professionally misunderstood.
“I have no doubt of that,” returned Dora, with an equanimity which was again strangely suggestive of Jem Agar. “But in future you will be consulting my welfare much more effectively by refraining from action on my behalf at all.”
“As you will, dear; as you will,” in the hopeless tone of age, experience, and wisdom forced to stand idle while youth and folly rush headlong down the hill.
“Yes,” returned Dora calmly; “I know that, thank you. And now, I think, we had better change the subject.”
The subject was therefore changed; but Sister Cecilia, having, as it were, whetted her appetite for details, was not at her ease with other food for the mind, and presently Dora left.
The girl went back into her small world with a new knowledge gained—the knowledge that in all and through all we are really quite alone. There can be only one companion, and if that one be absent, there are only so many talking-machines left to us. And many of us pass the whole of our lives in conversation with them. So it is; and we know not why.
In a subtle way she felt stronger for this little tussle—a fight is always exhilarating. She felt that from henceforth the memory of Jem was hers, and hers alone, to defend and to cherish. It was not much of a consolation. No. But then this is a world of small mercies, where some of us get an hour or some mean portion of a day when we want a lifetime.